


A Brief Acceptance

by por_queeee



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, M/M, Post Karnak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Karnak, Rorschach is all Dan really has left. And when your partner is broken and all you want is revenge against the world's smartest man, what do you do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2009, and my first fanfic. Set in an AU where Rorschach survives the events at Karnak.

Daniel stares down at the sleeping man below him. He awoke this morning to find that his lock had been broken once again in typical Rorschach fashion. Spotting the empty can of beans on the table next to a scarf and hat he normally would have trudged back up to bed to sleep a bit longer, secure in the knowledge that although a psychopath had broken into his home in the night it had been his psychopath. However, one tiny detail had worried him.

 

Namely, the blood trail leading to his living room. It wasn’t unusual that Rorschach tracked a bit in from his nightly outings; however what was unusual were the bloody prints suggesting the pint sized terror had used the wall to support himself. This, of course, told Dan that his “friend” for lack of a better word was injured.

 

So he had followed the smears of red into his living room wearily, a thousand worries probing his mind, all involving an unpleasant little man that regularly raided his refrigerator.

 

He walked towards the door, heart pumping a bit faster than usual in anticipation, and saw a leg dangling off the end of his couch. He crept further in, and carefully peered around the doorframe at the leg’s owner; and yes, it was Rorschach, and yes, evidence suggested he had been bleeding.

 

But more importantly, he was breathing. He looked Rorschach over carefully, feeling himself exhale in relief. Rorschach was stripped down only to his stained wife beater and pants, rumpled and twisted around the toned figure they covered. A rather large cut was visible on his shoulder, and Daniel nervously shuffled closer to inspect the wound. Leaning over he was relieved to see that it had been cleaned out somewhat and stitched up tightly. Some medical thread and a needle lay on the coffee table with a small pool of blood, accompanied by a wet stained rag he guessed had been used to wipe away some of the dirt and grime.

 

He sat down in his recliner with a sigh, massaging his temples. Rorschach had been getting clumsy. Or rather, he just didn’t care anymore. Ever since Karnak…

 

Dan squeezed his eyes shut. He refused to think about Karnak. About Veidt. About the massacre of millions in the name of peace.

 

No, he wouldn’t think about it; he was alive, and that’s what mattered… Right? He glanced over at Rorschach tiredly, resting his chin in his palm. Rorschach was all that he had left now. Everybody was either dead or, in Laurie’s case, had abandoned him. He set his jaw firmly. He sure as hell wasn’t going to think about that either.

 

But it was true, Rorschach was all he had left. Unfortunately he wasn’t sure how long he would have Rorschach either. Sometimes he went days without seeing him; Dan had tried to convince Rorschach to move in with him, that it was the safest move, that they had to stick together now in this uncertain world. But Rorschach had grunted and walked way, and Dan hadn’t brought it up since. Had been too scared.

And Dan wondered how long Rorschach could keep quiet about what Veidt had done. Or how long it would be before Rorschach slipped, before Rorschach was finally just too weak, before Rorschach died. Dan didn’t want him to die. He felt things for Rorschach that weren’t exactly feelings of friendship… Something more. He tried to convince himself that these feelings had emerged out of loneliness, a last ditch attempt at finding something worth living for, his mind’s way of saving him even as it propelled him deeper into his own private hell. This theory didn’t quite work though… Didn’t fit the timeline so to speak. Because as long as he had been denying it, he had felt like that long before Karnak. Before the Roche case even; when Rorschach had been Walter, (although Dan still didn’t know this was his name,) pretending to be Rorschach.

 

Rorschach stirs and Dan’s eyes flick up at him in horror, as if simply thinking about their relationship was a sin. But Rorschach draws his knees closer, wrapping his arms around his own body in a desperate clutch. And then he grunts, and Daniel thinks he hears him cry out a word, something not quite distinguishable. He leans closer, tilting his head, and Rorschach repeats the word again, body trembling as if wracked with pain or tears or something equally unpleasant.

 

“Daniel.” The name slides out of his cracked lips quickly but unmistakably.

 

 _Daniel._ And then he begins to stir, and Daniel’s mouth is agape.


	2. Chapter 2

Daniel sits up rigidly, hands clenching his knees. His eyes are locked on Rorschach; is he awake now? It’s impossible to tell; that damned mask prevents him from seeing whether Rorschach’s eyes are open. The blots of black shift sluggishly across their white background and Dan relaxes, ascertaining from them that Rorschach is still asleep.

 

“Watching me while I sleep Daniel. Why?” Dan jumps at his partner’s rough monotone voice, a deer in the headlights.

 

“R-Rorschach,” He splutters, pushing his glasses tighter against the bridge of his nose, “I um, thought you were asleep?”

 

Rorschach sits up with a hurm and cracks his neck. “Was.” He says simply. Daniel licks his lips, remembering the single word Rorschach had uttered in his slumber; “Daniel.” His name… But why?

 

“So um…” Rorschach’s head turns towards Daniel, and Dan assumes that this means he’s looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably under the other man’s gaze. “Look, can you just take that off?” He gestures at the mask. As if in response, the blots shift. “I mean, I’ve known what you look like since you got arrested so…”

 

“My face Daniel. Why?” Rorschach sits stiff as a mannequin, fingers digging into his knees. Dan sighs, ruffles his hair absentmindedly.

 

“Because it’s goddamned unnerving. Like staring into the fucking abyss.” He says in frustration, slumping deeper into the recliner. For a long moment, Rorschach is silent, staring at Dan. Dan turns his head away nervously, closes his eyes.

 

“Hurm.” Rorschach hooks a finger under his mask slowly, slides it of. “If you would rather look at lie, fine. Better?” Dan’s eyes open in surprise, and he looks over at Rorschach.

 

Immediately, he regrets his request.

 

Dark bags sag under Rorschach’s dead brown eyes; unblinking, they stare at, (or possibly through,) Dan. The sharp angles of his jaw poke harshly against pale sickly skin, and stubble grows unchecked. Dan’s stomach sinks and he winces; his friend’s appearance, never amazing in the first place, has deteriorated to that of one who’s been to hell and back, seen the world’s evils in perfectly grotesque detail.

 

Dan reminds himself it was because Rorschach had. In the halls of Karnak he had solved his case, had listened as Veidt rationalized the murder of millions, and had been prevented from avenging them. Had been told that if he revealed the soul wrenching truth then he would be responsible for mankind’s downfall. Had been forced to go against everything his instincts, his morals, his way of life had told him. Daniel remembers the look on Rorschach’s face the days they volunteered to clean up the wreckage created by the monster. He had looked as if he believed himself guilty, guilty for every body they carted away, for every horror contorted face they found beneath the rolling masses of tentacles. Guilty for failing to stop Veidt, or at least to expose the truth about New York’s supposed messiah.

 

And maybe he was guilty; maybe they all were. But now the only familiar parts of Rorschach that remained unchanged were the freckles, the tufts of red hair.

 

“Um, yeah… Yeah that’s better.” He says even as he yearns for Rorschach’s haunted visage to be covered one more. “So uh…” He licks his lips again, shifts uncomfortably. “What were you dreaming about?” He looks for a response carefully, out of the corners of his eyes.

 

Rorschach tenses up, muscles rolling under his wife beater, jaw tightening in seeming irritation. “Don’t dream Daniel.” He grunts, fingers digging into his knees.

 

“But… You said my name. And you were moving oddly, I mean… You sure?”

 

Rorschach clenches so tightly his knuckles turn white and his wrist makes a sickening crack.

 

“…Said name?” He asks, ears nearly as red as his hair now. He stares into his lap contemptuously, and Dan squints his eyes and gets the impression that Rorschach is actually embarrassed.

 

“Um, yeah… You said ‘Daniel.’ Twice, actually.”

 

Rorschach stands up abruptly, hands balled into fists. “Leaving.” He states, snatching up his jacket and gloves. Dan notes that Rorschach had actually slept in his shoes. He pulls his mask back on and starts to walk away, and Dan’s stomach sinks.

 

“Rorschach!” He pleads, getting to his feet. “Look, if something’s wrong…” Rorschach freezes in the door frame, slides on his jacket and Dan steals one last look at the toned arms spattered with freckles, feels his heart skip a beat like a schoolgirl with a crush. He hates himself for it.

 

“World’s a nightmare. Dreams betray me.” Rorschach turns his head slightly, and Dan takes another step towards him, face betraying both his pity and his longing. “That’s what is wrong Daniel.” And then he walks away again, stops in the kitchen to grab his hat and scarf while Dan stands there dumbly, mouth agape. He hears his door open and he runs forward, until he can see Rorschach’s back, pausing in the doorway almost as if he wants to be stopped.

 

“Walter!” The name slips past Daniel’s lips before he can stop it. Rorschach steps out, closing the door behind him, and just as the narrowing gap disappears he replies. “Walter is dead.”

 

And he’s gone, and Daniel is alone in the kitchen with an empty can of beans as the only proof that he didn’t imagine the visit. He collapses in a chair, slams his fist on the table in frustration, repulsed by the traitorous thoughts that invade his head at night about whispers of freckled skin and the ghosts of calloused hands. Repulsed by an internal wish he has that Rorschach had said his name while asleep for the same reason Daniel stocks up on beans and sugar cubes even though he hates beans and has taken his coffee black since Karnak. The same reason he touches himself in the dead of night. The same reason why his mind is a mess of freckles, of stubbled jaws, of shifting black on white.

 

Daniel closes his eyes, lets his head fall back. He’s so alone. So pathetic. Laurie went with Jon; didn’t even look back. Hollis is dead; killed by knotheads, bludgeoned with his own trophy. Rorschach slips further into madness each day; lets the deaths of millions weigh him down.

 

Who does Daniel truly have left but himself?

 

Nobody. Just him, a middle aged man, muscles turning to flab, who once dressed up like an owl and tried to save the world.

 

Who failed.


	3. Chapter 3

Daniel hasn’t seen Rorschach for two weeks, and he scolds himself inwardly for how often he worries, and for the sleepless nights he spends watching his door.

 

During the day he goes through life a zombie. But whenever he can he’s volunteering; passing out portions to those left homeless, repairing the damage wrought by Veidt’s monstrosity. He’s grateful for the fact that work has moved from the extraction of bodies from twisted metal and the hacking and disposal of slimy tentacles to simpler less horrifying tasks like paving, construction.

 

In the evenings sometimes he goes down to his workshop and stares at his suit; tinkers with Archie. He should be grateful that he’s even allowed to keep these things, his house. After all, the cops knew he was the one who broke Rorschach out; he should be in prison by now. He tries to tell himself that it’s because everyone’s too busy with repairing the damage to notice little Daniel Dreiberg, ex-hero, but he knows that he’s lying to himself. Knows Veidt has something to do with it, has erased whatever records of his transgressions were left in an attempt to appease Dan and make sure his mouth stays firmly shut. He wonders idly how much hush money Adrian forked out to the N.Y.P.D and knows that however much it was it would still be a pittance to the arrogant bastard. Daniel hates every minute of the time he spends with the relics of his past because he knows the only reason he can is thanks to Veidt, whom is most likely responsible for the efforts to catch Rorschach being minimal. Every time he sees one of Veidt’s billboards or posters, catches a glimpse of him on TV, overhears a disillusioned New Yorker as he reveres the great Adrian Veidt, he clenches his teeth in disgust, bile rising in his stomach, and he wants to throw up.

 

He’s taken up painting but most of his works he burns, because every face ends up contorted in horror, every bird’s brilliant plumage aflame, beak parted in a desperate squawk. Dan tries not to think about how the bird is probably his subconscious’s way of depicting him.

 

Once, he attempted to paint the monster with all of the bodies scattered about it, blood flooding the streets like a macabre version of the Venetian waterways, children’s corpses replacing the gondolas, gliding silently amidst chunks of decaying meat. He meant to send it to Adrian, a kind of ‘fuck you’ to the man that had all of New York under his thumb, but he found himself unable. Unable because all of the faces lax in death seemed to develop freckles, brown eyes that stared at him accusingly, lolling heads aflame with red hair.

 

The next day Dan had shredded the canvas and watched as it curled up slowly in the fire he lit, shriveling to nothing but ash. He had turned away in disgust as the dozens of Walters were consumed by the glowing embers, and he goes back to pretending that he’s not broken.

 

Dan tries not to cry each night as he watches the clock, waiting for a man who died long ago.


	4. Chapter 4

Dan is slightly startled when he hears his door splintering, but this is quickly replaced with excitement, because he knows its Rorschach. He hurries to the kitchen, heart beating faster both with excitement and strain. Damn he’s getting out of shape.

 

Dan is very startled to find Rorschach with an arm that doesn’t look quite right.

 

“Oh god,” he whimpers, Rorschach looking up at him calmly. “What happened? Your arm!” He moves closer, tries to touch Rorschach’s shoulder, but his kindness is met with a push and Rorschach backs away, standing as rigid as always.

 

“Fine, Daniel.” Dan’s eyebrows knit up in confusion.

 

“Rorschach, you need fucking medical attention.” Rorschach grunts in response, sits in a kitchen chair and pulls his mask up enough to eat the can of beans in front of him.

 

Daniel stares at the man for the next five minutes, shifting uncomfortably as Rorschach shovels the cold beans into his mouth. As he finishes and pushes the can away, Daniel reaches out, hand grasping the purple jacked spattered with blood that he knows is most likely not Rorschach’s. Rorschach tenses, sets his jaw firmly.

 

“It’s ok,” Daniel assures him, “I’m just going to see how bad it is, and I need to get it uncovered.” Rorschach seems to think and then nods slowly, flighty like a bird. He helps Daniel to slide the jacket off, and Dan is especially careful as he guides the offending arm free. His eyes watch Rorschach the whole time, pleased the mask is still only half on. He studies his jaw, imagines the rough texture of a stubbled cheek on his own.

 

“Daniel. Coat’s off.” Dan snaps back to reality, face reddening slightly.

 

“U-uh sorry, um…” He gingerly feels Rorschach’s arm, focuses on the blue and purple bruises that span the muscles. Rorschach pulls his mask down, looks away, and Dan feels a pang or fear, wonders if Rorschach notices the way he stares.

 

“I need to put some pressure on it for a minute; you know your shoulder’s out of the socket right?” Daniel asks in an almost maternal tone. Rorschach grunts in response, flinches as Dan squeezes around the rotator cuff.

 

“Alright, I’m going to have to pop it back in.” Dan murmurs, curling his other hand around Rorschach’s bicep. His eyes flick up to look at Rorschach who is apparently avoiding his gaze like the plague, head turned the other way. Rorschach’s skin is hot beneath his hands and he bites his lower lip, ignores the thoughts that swirl through his head.

 

“Do it.” Rorschach growls, and Dan feels the taut muscles beneath his fingers stiffen.

 

“This is going to hurt. I mean…”

 

Rorschach’s head turns around, inkblots shifting angrily and Dan stops breathing for a moment, familiar shameful feelings bubbling up. “Do it now Daniel, or take your hands off of me.”

 

Dan looks down, upset. Reminds himself that this is one of many valid reasons why his attraction to Rorschach is a mistake; Rorschach is repulsed by his touch.

 

“S-sorry.” He mumbles, and he grips Rorschach tightly, without hesitation forcing the shoulder back into it’s socket, shamed by how he relishes taking his frustration out on his injured partner’s shoulder.

 

The noise it produces makes Dan wince, though not as much as the dull cry that comes from Rorschach; and odd animalistic growl that ends in a deep throaty breath. Rorschach sits there for a moment, head tilted down.

 

“Thank you Daniel,” Rorschach says finally, voice cracking slightly, “How bad?”

 

“Not very… Should be fine now.” He looks at Rorschach intently. “If you’re careful with it.” Rorschach stands up, prods his shoulder with freshly bared fingertips.

 

“Mm. Going now. Thanks again.”

 

Daniel steps towards him, and Rorschach stiffens. Daniel just needs a little bit of physical contact, a fix, something to think about as he drifts to sleep later. He hasn’t seen Rorschach in so damn long. He slowly licks his lips, aware that even a friendly gesture like this might be met with violence. But Karnak swept away what little footing he had left on this… This thing between them, whatever it is.

 

“Be more careful Rorschach. Please… I um, worry, y’know?” His heart beats a little faster, and he extends his hand, brushes his fingers over the freckled back before him, and lets his hand rest there. He feels Rorschach’s muscles relax, and it looks almost as if he’s quivering..

 

But it’s over quickly, and Rorschach turns around, slaps his hand away.

 

“Don’t. Touch. Me.” The command is thick with rage and something else Dan can’t quite discern. He gulps, takes his hand away, face contorting into a hurt expression.

 

“But why?” He says before he can stop his traitorous lips; he must have a death wish, he knows better than to push this any further. Something clicks in his head, and he looks up at Rorschach quizzically, skin prickling coldly, heart thumping. “Does it have something to do with the dream you had? When you said my name?” He holds his breath, trying to understand how the two things are connected, stifling the voice that whispers to him that it’s the same reason Dan sometimes lets his own hand trail down to his member as he thinks of the handshake he once shared with Rorschach, the longest instance of voluntary physical contact they’ve ever shared. Daniel can never help but feel pathetic, masturbating over a fucking handshake.

 

Rorschach jams his fists into his pockets, stands rigidly. “…Yes.” He says simply, still shaking ever so slightly.

 

Dan clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck nervously, looking at his feet. “What, um, what happened exactly? In the dream I mean.” He pretends as if he’s fascinated with a stain on his shirt, fights the urge to look up.

 

“Of no concern.” Rorschach says, though Dan can hear a thread of uncertainty tangle itself in the statement.

 

“It is though!” Dan asserts, suddenly not so intent on staring at the stain. Instead, his head snaps up, and his brow creases. “I mean we, we’re partners. Or, at least we were.” He sighs, clears his throat again. “Besides, uh, you’re important to me. I mean, you’re the only one I have left. Ever since Veidt decided to fucking play God.” He waits a moment, but when Rorschach doesn’t answer he makes one more futile attempt, one more desperate entreaty, hoping it doesn’t fall on deaf ears. “Please Rorschach. Tell me.”

 

Rorschach moves to leave, grabs his trench coat and jacket from the table, but Dan reaches out as he passes, and Rorschach stops. Dan takes his hand away, remembering the other man’s penchant for breaking fingers.

 

Rorschach seems determined not to look at him, but Dan can tell from the rapid shifting of his mask, the sharp shapes the blots are forming that he’s upset.

 

“Want to know about dream Daniel?” His voice grates on Dan’s ears but he nods silently, afraid he’ll scare Rorschach away. Hah, scare Rorschach of all people; he realizes he must be going insane. Maybe he always has been.

 

What Dan assumes to be a single scratchy laugh slips from Rorschach’s lips, and Dan winces. Rorschach steps over, points a finger at Dan’s chest, the solemnity of his voice cracking. “Were right, you were in dream. Doing… Doing filthy things.” Rorschach sounds choked up, but with anger or sadness Dan can’t tell. “Corrupted you.” Rorschach chokes, voice slipping. “Woke up in… Physical discomfort. Ignored, overcame. But you won’t let it go.” Dan’s heart beat progressively quickens, and he feels a little sick.

 

“Physical discomfort?” He asks, ears eager to hear his suspicions confirmed. Rorschach stares straight at him, and Dan wishes he also had the luxury of a mask to hide behind. He can feel his face reddening, hot blood warming his cheeks.

 

“Dirty, Daniel… The discomfort of degenerates, of scum, of whores, of fags.”

 

Dan steps forward uncertainly, going out on a limb he’s sure is about to break, that will send him hurtling to the jagged rocks below. His heart thumps steadily in his eardrums. “About that… Rorschach, it’s um, it’s ok man, I mean, I’ve uh, well… I understand where you’re coming from. I’m, I’m there myself.” His eyes flit back and forth between Rorschach’s chest and face during the confession, afraid he’s somehow misinterpreted the other man’s words. Rorschach clenches his overcoat in his fist, scarf and gloves hanging from the pockets, fedora lying on the table.

 

“No Daniel, you’re good, not like me. Lying; lying to make me feel better.”

 

“Rorschach, no, I um…” He becomes surer of himself now, prepares to risk the only thing he has left, the friend who witnessed the world burn by his side, who’s been damaged ever since. Who’s always been damaged. “I have feelings for you. I-its more than lust ok?”

 

Rorschach growls, and Dan’s afraid, afraid of what he’s just done, of the prospect that he may have just taken what little happiness he has left and snapped its neck. That’s why as Rorschach rips his mask off, Dan is perplexed, frightened, confused. The blotted white cloth slips off, revealing Rorschach’s blunt features, and Dan flinches.

 

“Look at me Daniel. Ugly. Becoming morally repugnant as well. Gay thoughts; disgusting. Why would you have feelings for me? All lies, lies, lies.”

 

“Rorschach stop it.” Dan yells, grabs Rorschach’s wrist to stop the hands as they grasp desperately at their owner’s hair, the trench coat dropping to the floor. “You’re not, you’re not ugly, and, and there’s nothing wrong with the feelings you’re having.” Dan realizes he’s still holding Rorschach, that their chests are practically pressed together, and his heart leaps into his throat.

 

Rorschach opens his mouth, shivering under Dan’s hands, and Dan knows Rorschach is about to write this whole thing off, that he’ll be gone any moment now.

 

Dan knows he’s past the point of no return, and he also knows how inviting the other man’s look parted like that; so he seizes the opportunity, takes the proverbial leap of faith.

 

His lips press down on Rorschach’s gently, and Daniel’s eyes are squeezed shut, too scared to look for a reaction. He runs the name through his head, Walter Walter Walter, slipping through his mind like a well worn worry stone, the other side to the coin that is Rorschach.

 

He’s ready to be thrown off, punched, head butted, anything but what he gets; the cracked thin lips press back uncertainly, a receptive hum escaping Rorschach’s throat. Rorschach- Walter- Whoever the hell he- is melts under him, and Dan’s eyes open in surprise. He ends the kiss, Walter a panting mess. Daniel realizes that one of his hands is wrapped around the smaller man’s waste, one threaded through bright red hair.

 

“See? It’s not bad Wal-… Rorschach.” He should regret what’s just happened, make an excuse, but he doesn’t. His advances had actually been reciprocated, and there was a slight adrenaline rush flowing through his body, clouding his inhibitions.

 

Walter doesn’t say anything, but he also doesn’t move away, just stares at Dan through clouded eyes.

 

And for a moment Dan thinks he can actually see a glint of life in those eyes.

 

He decides to push it farther, despite his brain’s protests. “Do you um… Want to?” Rorschach looks up, confused, tensing. Dan’s face turns red, clearing his throat, turns back to the awkward middle aged failure again.

 

“…Not a whore Daniel.” Rorschach mumbles. Dan’s stomach sinks, realizing the mistake, and he starts to move away, mumbles an apology. But a strong hand grips his arm, stops him in his tracks, and Walter is looking up at him shyly, a trait Dan’s never seen in him before.

 

“Only… Only doing this for you.” Dan pauses then nods slowly, leans in to plant a gentle kiss, caresses the small of Rorschach’s back in an effort to comfort him. Walter pushes him off firmly, walks away. Dan stares after him dumbfounded, confused. He follows, a few feet behind, and as they climb the stairs he understands. Rorschach stands in front of Dan’s bedroom door, looks over his shoulder at Dan, and Dan can see the fear in his eyes. As he reaches him he wraps his arms around Rorschach, kisses the pale neck reassuringly. Rorschach is tense as Dan turns him around, presses their lips together, slides a large hand up Walter’s wife-beater carefully.

 

“Do you want this?” He asks, pushing the door open, guiding their bodies towards the bed, pressing chaste kisses to Walter’s neck. Walter nods curtly, mouth a firm line.

 

“Want this… Very much Daniel.”

 

And as he lowers Rorschach’s quivering body to the mattress, as he tastes a mix of sugar cubes and dirty teeth, as he straddles the other man’s hips, he is certain of two things.

 

First, that he loves the broken man beneath him, even as the world crashes down .

 

And secondly, that Rorschach never would have allowed this if the events of Karnak had not transpired, if millions had never died.

 

Veidt had brought them together in some sick twisted way. Veidt was to thank for the awkward but wonderful sex be was about to have.

 

And even now, as he realizes that Adrian is the one who has brought Dan’s long held dream to fruition, he still hates him more than he once believed to be humanly possible.

 

As a small vigilante undoes Dan’s belt with inexperienced hands, Dan vows to do one thing, one thing that might help his friend, one thing that might stop the steady rate at which Rorschach is descending into oblivion.

 

Daniel vows to kill the world’s smartest man, New York’s golden boy.

 

He vows to kill Adrian Veidt.


	5. Chapter 5

Rorschach reaches up, attempts to pull Dan’s belt off, but it’s obvious that his hands are quaking too badly for him to make any progress. Dan leans down, and their lips clash, teeth scraping and scratching in the process. He moves Rorschach’s hands aside, pulls the belt off himself. He moves off from on top of Rorschach carefully, realizing he might possibly be crushing him; Dan is willing to admit that he’s gotten a little chubby since his retirement. Rorschach props himself up, looks at Dan with confusion.

 

“Clothes.” Dan explains, face flushed red. He pulls Rorschach forward onto his lap so that the smaller man’s legs are straddling his hips, leans back against the headboard taking Rorschach with him, somehow kissing gently but firmly all at once. Rorschach’s Adams apple bobs and he leans into Dan aggressively. Dan breaks their lips apart, hastily pushes the wife-beater from Rorschach’s body, and he can feel how severely Rorschach is trembling from the contact, like a scared Chihuahua. He admires Rorschach’s shirtless body, muscles rippling beneath a mesh of scars and bruises. He realizes fully well that Rorschach is filthy, most likely hasn’t showered in a few weeks, and he also realizes he doesn’t care. If anything it makes this situation all the more stimulating, and he files this odd phenomenon away to examine later; he obviously was in need of psychiatric evaluation.

 

“Shh, it’s ok.” He whispers as he notices the fright in the brown eyes, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. He had never pictured Rorschach as a sexual being, but it isn’t until now that Dan realizes how close to the truth that is. He rubs his hands over the freckled back, kisses Rorschach’s jaw, savoring the feel of the stubble that pokes roughly against his lips. He can feel the hardness quickly forming in his pants, and can’t help but enjoy the fact that he’s getting revved up for Rorschach so quickly. Especially compared to the experience with Laurie; maybe it’s out of spite, but inwardly he wishes he could tell her how she was less sexually appealing than Rorschach of all people. The fact that Laurie deserted him, leaving the planet with Jon still grates at him even now as he feels Rorschach’s own erection pressing into his stomach.

 

He swallows the lump in his throat, whispers in Rorschach’s ear half-heartedly; “We can stop now, if that’s what you want.” In response Rorschach begins to slide down his pants, avoiding Dan’s eyes. Dan should have known Rorschach wouldn’t back down; after all, he’s a stubborn man who always finishes what he starts. Dan feels a pang in his heart; he should really stop this, Rorschach obviously has issues with sex… Especially sex involving two men. Daniel feels guilty, thinks he’s taking advantage of the situation, and opens his mouth, prepares to stop this before he hurts Walter any further.

 

Rorschach unbuttons Dan’s pants, and all of the sudden Dan forgets his train of thought, eyes focusing on the small man clothed only in boxers. Dan grabs Rorschach and kisses him furiously, working with his partner to shimmy out of his jeans. It’s clumsy and awkward, but they finally manage to extract Dan from his pants, kicking them to the side, lips locked the entire time. Rorschach is panting into Dan’s mouth, and they part just long enough to get Dan’s shirt off, flinging it off the bed. Dan is thankful that it’s dark; only a sliver of moonlight slants across the bed, just enough to see each other by. It makes this easier, this awkward attempt at forcing together two entities that don’t quite belong together, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that appear correct at first glance but turn out to be completely wrong.

 

They’re just in their boxers now, and Dan forgets to care about his slight paunch, focuses on the red head’s lips. Their kisses get progressively more aggressive, and what Rorschach lacks in experience he makes up for in effort. Dan feels the small man’s blunt nails scrabbling desperately at his back in some sort of attempt to hold onto his sanity, to gain purchase over some inner demon that Dan doesn’t understand.

 

The pressure in his groin is becoming unbearable and Dan arches against Rorschach, their cocks brushing through the thin fabric separating them. Rorschach produces a groan, back arching violently, squeezes Dan so hard his nails break the skin, a small trickle of crimson trailing from the scratch. Dan winces and rolls Rorschach over, knowing he’ll have to guide the man through this carefully, knowing that he should at least avoid sex of a penetrative nature for now if he wants to brink Rorschach out of this with his mind unscathed.

 

Rorschach looks up at him through half lidded eyes, breath ragged and sparse. Daniel’s heart skips a beat, and he slips a hand into Rorschach’s boxers slowly, past the patch of rough hair, fondling gingerly. If he weren’t so damned turned on he would be amused by the thought of Rorschach, scourge of the underworld trembling below him.

 

Rorschach’s eyes flutter open, and he thrusts instinctively into Dan’s hand, pressing his head into the mattress. “D-Daniel” He groans, hands fisting in the sheets, head twisting to the side in what an onlooker might perceive to be agony.

 

“Shh, I’m here, its ok.” Daniel whispers, hardness aching. “Uh, c-could you…” He presses his erection into Rorschach’s hip, eyes apologetic. Rorschach stares at him tentatively, nods slowly, eyes watching cautiously as he reaches down Dan’s shorts. Dan bites his lip as the calloused hand glides over his length, and he thrusts in encouragement.

 

They stroke each other like this for a time, fevered bodies writhing unapologetically, lips kissing their partner’s face, neck, anything within reach. Rorschach bites Dan’s lip a little too hard, and blood dribbles onto their lips, but they won’t stop, don’t want to stop, can’t stop.

 

It’s only a few moments and then Rorschach’s thrusts become more frantic, breath catching in his throat. Dan watches, intrigued as the other man spasms into his palm, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

 

Warm semen spurts into Dan’s hand, and Rorschach’s body shakes with the force of a release that must have been building up unfulfilled for much too long. He cries out, an exclamation that somewhat resembles Daniel’s name spilling from his lips, hand tightening ever so slightly around Dan’s member.

 

Seeing this is more than enough for Dan, and he buries his head into Rorschach’s bony shoulder, comes with a final jerk of his hips. “O-oh god, Walter!” He cries, and the sticky fluid leaves his body, flowing into the other man’s hand. They squeeze each other tightly until the last of the spasms have ended, hands still in each other’s underwear, fresh salty sweat slowly drying.

 

They lay like this for what seems like an eternity until finally they withdraw their hands from their partner’s boxers, wipe the semen on the mattress unceremoniously.

 

Dan gathers Rorschach into his arms, pulls him to his chest, wonders how the prospect of cuddling will be met. He’s surprised that it’s actually met receptively, that Walter burrows into Dan immediately, angular body poking into Dan’s stomach in a not altogether unpleasant way.

 

He feels Walter shaking and hesitates, nearly pulls away but stops himself. “What’s wrong?” He whispers, afraid that what’s just happened wasn’t exactly the best possible move. After all, he just traded handjobs with his best friend for fuck’s sake.

 

“Called me Walter.” Rorschach’s voice is hoarse from sex, scratchier than usual.

 

Dan’s thankful, thankful his partner hasn’t pulled away yet, and he nods sleepily.

“Mm. It’s your name. Or, at the very least, one of them.”

 

Walter seems to untense, and he presses his face into the crook of Dan’s neck shyly, like a small child seeking refuge from nightmares.

 

“Only you can call me that.” Rorschach says possessively, so quiet Dan’s ears strain to distinguish the words.

 

Dan nods, eyes closing.

 

“…Not gay Daniel.” Walter mutters, in complete contradiction to the night’s events.

 

“I know.” Dan lies. Lies because he isn’t sure; after all, if Rorschach isn’t gay or at least bi-sexual then what the fuck just happened? He wraps an arm around Rorschach’s waste. “I love you.” He mumbles, too tired to think twice about what he’s just said.

 

Just as Daniel Dreiberg drifts to sleep, pressed against a man he’s only allowed to hold because of the tragedy that’s befallen New York, a broken being that he has never truly seen smiles, he hears four words muttered softly into his clavicle, feels hot breath waft over his neck.

 

“…Love you too, Daniel.”


	6. Chapter 6

Adrian Veidt was no idiot.

As a matter of fact, he has been labeled “the world’s smartest man,” amongst a number of other titles, (most of them positive and on the borderline of worship.) These included, but are certainly not limited to, “The Sexiest Man Alive,” “New York’s Golden Boy,” and, or course, “The World’s Gayest Man.” The latter was actually the feature article in a small magazine entitled The Gay Gazette, and Adrian has the cover of that particular issue framed over his desk; he has quite a chuckle over it on the occasions when business associates are invited to his sprawling office. Subsequently, the magazine went bankrupt immediately afterwards and was forced to close shop

Suffice it to say, Adrian Veidt is many things, but “idiot” is one title he has never had the misfortune of acquiring.

He often thinks back to Karnak, to the events in which Bubastis died by his own hands. Everyone walked away with their lives that night, excluding Bubasitis and his man-servants.

Oh, and half of New York of course.

He had suspected that he would have to kill Rorschach that night; the man was extremely dedicated to his own set of morals, and while Adrian admired such tenacity, he could not have the world peace he had so painstakingly carved out be put in jeopardy. He had predicted that Rorschach would die that night, had gone into it all fully anticipating that the blood of the small man would have to be let there on the crisp white snow.

This had been one of the few instances in which Adrian Veidt had been wrong. Well, not wrong precisely; he of all people understood that the human mind is far from infallible, and as such he always went into situations with this in mind. No, he had not been wrong, simply surprised. Surprise was, to Adrian Veidt, a necessary evil. It reminded him of his own fallibility, something that was required if he was to guide this mere fledgling of a world. He even came to relish the feeling of surprise; the rush, the knowledge he would not always know what came next.

No, Rorschach had lived. The tenseness had been palpable as Adrian explained his brave new world, had reasoned with them, entreated them to understand and go along with it so that he might spare a few more lives. It had taken several minutes, but Jon, Laurie, and Daniel had all agreed, (though he could see the evident reluctance showcased in Laurie and Dan’s eyes,) and he had turned to Rorschach, ready for the inevitable. For a lecture on never compromising, an insane vow to destroy Veidt, along with the fragile peace he had cultivated on the backs of the citizens of New York, (though he knew Rorschach’s black-and-white moral logic would circumvent this last fact.)

But Rorschach had instead reminded Adrian of his humanity, his fallibility, by surprising him.

It had started off as Adrian expected; Rorschach stormed off, presumably to undermine Adrian’s entire project. As if the word of one man, a man regarded by the whole of the populace as a blatant psychopath who recently absconded from his own incarceration prematurely, would create more than the sliver of a crack in the foundation of Adrian’s new civilization. No, there was no concrete damage the vigilante could do, but even the smallest crack needed to be fixed, sealed up. Adrian had to be cautious; the world depended on him.

But then, something Adrian had not foreseen nor even considered had occurred; Rorschach had changed his mind.

He had changed his mind, it appeared, for Daniel.

Jon left; realized that, while he had come to treasure the unlikely miracle that was human life, there was no true place for him here, and he did not wish to make one. But he had taken Laurie with him, much to Daniel’s disdain. She was not forced, instead went of her own volition, not wishing to dwell any longer on the planet of her birth where she had learned through Adrian’s accidental tutelage that true peace must be purchased with deception and mass murder. She didn’t even said goodbye to Daniel whom she had previously shared carnal relations with.

It had been oddly depressing for Adrian, watching Dreiberg cry silently when he learned of her betrayal. As if the two had shared anything much deeper than a friendship that had turned to fucking. Daniel obviously had the illusion that the thing between them was love, but Adrian knew better, knew it was an issue of one-sided attraction on Daniel’s part and boredom on Laurie’s. Not that Laurie had slept with Daniel out of malignance; she had obviously just been flooded, flooded with issues in her relationship with a possibly omnipotent being and a mix of friendly and sexual feelings for Dan. Feelings that were not of the romantic nature, but of the “you’re a good friend and I’m horny and lonely” nature.

So Adrian watched on his surveillance cameras after his talk with Manhattan, contemplating the weight of the days events, as Daniel chased madly after Rorschach. Adrian watched as a second Jon, the first no doubt gone from the face of the Earth along with Laurie, confronted Rorschach in the snow. He waited, expecting Jon to obliterate Rorschach in some bizarre fashion. Instead, Dreiberg emerged from the building, ran desperately to stop the inevitable, to prevent his friend from doing something stupid, but nonetheless in his nature.

Adrian watched the encounter in amusement, listening as fastidiously as a lonely old woman to her soap operas.

Daniel begged his partner, crying in the most dignified manner available to a man that has just been deserted for a naked blue thing. Rorschach had begun to ask to be killed, his final refusal of Veidt’s plea for silence. But then he looked up at Daniel, mask in hand, and something made him stop.

Adrian surmised from Rorschach’s posture and sudden double-take as his gaze met Daniel’s that the gruff little man had seen something in Dreiberg’s eyes; something that snapped his resolve, that persuaded the un-persuadable man to live in a world that he could not possibly survive in, that brought him the ultimate pain just to inhabit.

Adrian didn’t understand at first, could not comprehend why it was that Rorschach then nodded slowly at Daniel, a silent agreement. An agreement that essentially undermined Rorschach’s own moral integrity. 

But Adrian was, as previously stated, not an idiot. When he saw the embrace that was shared as Jon left, as Daniel rushed forward in joy, he knew. 

In elation, Daniel leaned in, arms wrapping around Rorschach, whom was now his only refuge from the truth of Laurie’s desertion. This in and of itself was not enough to raise the hackles of Adrian’s suspicion, but Rorschach’s reaction was; the man tensed up at the contact, (once again, nothing unusual given his established distaste for emotions and the physical displays that accompanied them,) but then did something unexpected. He gritted his teeth, as if repressing words, his face contorting into a kind of pain that bespoke an unfulfilled longing, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides in what appeared to be an attempt at restraint. 

Then he pushed Daniel off, face still grubby with tears and snot, and stumbled away, towards Archimedes. Towards a life that he didn’t even want, but had been thrust back into his hands by whatever he had seen in Daniel’s eyes. 

So, Rorschach was hot for Dreiberg, or something similar. Adrian restrained a laugh. An unexpected turn of events, but not without its merit. He assumed that this would increase Rorschach’s likelihood to keep silent in several ways; for one, it was possible the conflict between Rorschach’s feelings, morals, and promise would push him over the edge and he would wind up dead either through self mutilation or reckless abandon during patrols, (which Adrian had no doubt would be kept up religiously.) And, of course, Daniel would be less likely to seek revenge on Adrian if he did not kill him directly as he had been planning before Jon’s intervention and usurping of the role. At the worst Rorschach might come to kill him, and this was a slight nuisance he could easily remove.

So, Adrian would allow him to live for the time being. He had immediately disposed of Dan’s records, incriminating evidence and the like from when he had aided and abetted Rorschach’s escape from prison. Adrian realized keeping the two in relative comfort where he could keep an eye on them was the best way to preemptively silence wagging tongues, rather than having the two become disgruntled prison captives or refugees on the run to who knows where.

Of course, Adrian had fresh bugs and cameras placed all over Dreiberg’s residence; he left most in obvious places, counting on Rorschach to find and dispose of these in the belief the threat was neutralized. Normally he would have retained paranoia that there were more no matter how many he found, but the events of Karnak left him fairly dazed, less apt for that type of thing. Adrian was pleased to find at least a few bugs left throughout the house. 

When he had seen Rorschach and Daniel’s odd sexual encounter Adrian smirked in the knowledge that his assumptions of Rorschach’s feelings had been adequately justified. He wondered idly what the results of this tryst would be as he masturbated to the throaty growls and strangled moans emanating from his former teammates. Adrian Veidt was not exempt from such primal urges, and though these hungers were typically sated by expensive man whores he was not above a brisk bout of self-manipulation if the need arose.

As he came into his own hand, quickly cleaning the mess away with an expensive silk handkerchief, he understood this would most likely result in an attempt on his life. The outcome of the two men’s desperate fucking produced several possibilities in Adrian’s mind; this would either break Rorschach, or it would motivate one of the two, (possibly both,) to kill him. Maybe they would indeed attempt assassination, maybe they would release his secret, (although he severely doubted the latter,) or maybe they would do nothing at all.

Either way, Adrian Veidt was adequately prepared. As if a flabby ex-adventurer and an insane… Midget could damage him. 

As if anyone could.


	7. Chapter 7

Dan wakes up, hoping he’s not alone, but simultaneously knowing he is.

 

As if he honestly could expect Walter to have stayed with him after what they had just done; it was enough of a gift that they had actually cuddled afterwards, but Dan had initiated that, a desperate attempt to shelter his friend and help him realize that what they had done is ok; is good.

 

His body is sore, dead weight on ruined sheets, and he shifts onto his back with a groan. He slowly opens one eye, squeezing it shut again immediately; warm sunlight filters in through his cheap plastic shutters, blinding him momentarily. He sighs, knowing he has to get up.

 

Daniel is aware that nobody is next to him; the only breathing he hears is his own, and he is almost certain that he would feel a second body-shaped depression in the mattress had Rorschach stayed. Still, as he pulls himself up wearily he cannot help but glance over where Walter would be. Of course, nothing meets his eyes but an empty space.

 

He stands up, stretches reluctantly, and with a ruffle of his disobedient hair he pushes his glasses onto his face, letting them perch on the bridge of his nose and then pulling on the first thing he can find. This turns out to be a hole riddled t-shirt and some baggy shorts. They will have to do until he gets a shower; parts of him that certainly should not be sticky are, well… Sticky.

 

A quick scan of the bed leaves him marginally terrified. The sheets are strewn about haphazardly, soft cloth crusty with fluids he would prefer not to think about. Worst of all is the dingy grime which coats a good deal of the bed’s surface and it’s linens as well. At first he cannot possibly fathom what produced the disgusting stain, but then he notices a vaguely Walter shaped print where his partner had lain. Of course, he thinks in disgust as he peels the offending sheets from the bed, tossing them on the dirty clothes pile to be washed. God knows the last time Rorschach had actually fucking showered, and his particular line of work, (namely bashing in the faces of random thugs,) is one that involves sweating, getting dirty, and maybe even bloody. Whether it was Rorschach’s own blood or another’s however, tended to vary. Realizing that he has been in a rather… Close proximity to that heap of germs, he shudders. Yet he cannot bring himself to be completely disgusted by this fact, not as he remembers the sensation of skin on skin, of mouth on mouth, of… He shudders again.

 

He starts to walk out, in need of a shower desperately. He needs to clear his head, to sort out how he should handle the events of last night. How he should go about fulfilling the promise he had made to Rorschach, although it is still unspoken, that he will kill Veidt.

 

As Daniel’s hand reaches for the knob on his restroom door he hears something and stops. Was that… He leans in, puts his ear to the wood, and yes, yes its water he hears beating down on the other side.

 

“Walter?” He calls out uncertainly, hand clasping around the brass knob loosely. Rorschach. The least hygienic man he knew. Taking a shower?

 

There is no response, but the steady beat of the water ends and he can hear the curtain slide open, metal rings grating against the matching bar. Then, the sound of feet padding onto the tile floor. Daniel frowns.

 

“Rorschach?” He tries instead, uncertain how severe the other man’s personality rift really is. Still no response and Daniel just stands there, dumfounded. His hand slowly turns the knob, deciding that it’s justified. He’s gripping the knob so hard his knuckles are white, expecting a roundhouse kick to the face. What if Rorschach is injured? Obviously its Dan’s responsibility to check on his friend.

 

…Right?

 

It’s locked. He frowns, steps back and leans against the wall, deciding he might as well wait.

 

Several minutes later the door swings open, and Daniel nearly falls over in surprise, arms swinging out in an attempt to regain his balance. Walter steps out, stares at him, obviously amused.

 

“Out of soap.” He grunts as Daniel steadies himself, the corners of him mouth twitching in what, in his case, passes as a smile. Daniel pushes his glasses up nervously.

 

“Um… I thought I just put a fresh bar in?” Daniel asks, face flush with embarrassment. He had just about fallen over; really smooth. Walter shrugs, edges past him stiffly. Daniel runs his eyes over the red head nervously; dear god his skin is so red. It almost looks as if it’s been rubbed raw.

 

Well, at least he was clean for once. Rorschach had never been one for bathing, but ever since Karnak he had been even less inclined to shower. Dan’s guess was that he just forgot, was too busy throwing himself recklessly into fighting any law breaker he could find.

 

He was also wearing clean clothes, which was another pleasant surprise. As a matter of fact, they were Dan’s clothes. A pair of his khakis and a grey shirt reading “Forget whales, save the owls” hangs loosely over Rorschach’s slim but muscled frame, obviously much too large. Dan steps forwards, turns Rorschach around in agitation. Rorschach flinches at the brief contact and steps away.

 

“My clothes!” Dan exclaims, immediately recognizing the outfit that’s been missing for several weeks. Walter grunts, rolls his shoulders uncomfortably.

 

“Too big. Pants look gay, shirt makes me look like hippy sympathizer.” He says simply, angular face lax with disinterest. Daniel notes that Rorschach has shaven, although not particularly well; rough patches of stubble still poke through here and there.

 

Dan sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, secretly resenting how chunky he is compared to the other man; the clothes were snug on him, but when it was Walter that wore them they looked so damn baggy. “That’s not the point.” He blurts, hands magnetically drawn to his hips like a nagging housewife. “They’re not gay, they’re just… Comfortable.”

 

Rorschach snorts, walks away, and Dan follows him after a brief hesitation. His eyes focus on a small area on the back of Walter’s neck; it’s redder than the rest, scrubbed so hard a small bead of blood has bubbled to the surface, so miniscule Dan has to squint. But it’s there alright. He opens his mouth dumbly, eyes glued to the discovery.

 

What the fuck.

 

“What did you do?” He asks as Rorschach stops to place the bundle of clothing in his arms, (purple pinstripes amongst them,) on the kitchen table. Dan winces as the soiled fabric comes into contact with his neat table, but there are more pressing matters to attend to and he knows it.

 

“Took a shower.” Rorschach answers, monotone voice revealing nothing but annoyance. He avoids looking at Dan, stares blankly at a porcelain owl that sits above the sink. Its head is cocked jauntily, amber eyes seeming to survey the room intently. Dan clears his throat, leans on a chair. He inwardly curses as it creaks under his weight.

 

“Well, yeah, but…” He motions vaguely towards Walter’s raw neck. “Why were you scrubbing so… Hard? I mean, um, I know you’re pretty dirty usually so it takes some effort…” He chuckles nervously, attempting to lighten the mood. It hangs pendulously over them, a product of the night’s sins, the implications of what they’ve done. It seems almost wrong to feel pleasure like that after what happened. After so many innocent people died. “But still, I think you got a bit enthusiastic with the soap.” He tries to smile good naturedly, but Rorschach just turns to look at him, jaw set firmly.

 

“Had to wash the filth off. Wash the… Gay off. Disgusting.” He truly does look disgusted as he speaks, shaking slightly at the word. Dan’s concern turns to annoyance.

 

“You mean you..? Christ Rorschach, you nearly scrubbed your damn skin off because of what happened last night!?”

 

Rorschach gestures at the towels on Dan’s arm. “You were about to do the same, correct?”

 

Dan’s face whitens slightly, and he licks his lips, a quickly developing habit. “No. I was going to wash off the sweat and the…” He pauses, searches for a word that won’t end in a punch to the throat. Getting graphic or colorful in a conversation with Rorschach probably is a bad idea, especially at this particular moment. “And the, um, other fluids.” He finishes lamely; suddenly terribly aware of what’s crusted on his thighs.

 

Rorschach watches him silently, thin lips screwed together. “Wanted to clean me of as well.”

 

“No! God no, I… I um, don’t regret it… Last night I mean.” Dan looks away, aware his cheeks are flushing slightly. Talking to Walter about this flusters him so badly, and he’s never been particularly good at these kinds of situations even when they involved women. He clears his throat awkwardly, glances at Rorschach who stands there with an expression as blank as chalk.

 

“Daniel. No lies.” He starts at Rorschach’s voice, and then looks into the dead brown eyes with reluctance. The emptiness that meets him unsettles him further, and he shifts. “You… No. Happened because you felt bad for me, were trying to help. Not… Not gay Daniel.” Rorschach continues, voice cracking like a dry twig underfoot. His entire body is tense, even for Rorschach, wound tighter than a rubber band. Daniel can’t help but realize that Rorschach is particularly adept at sucking the joy out of a room instantaneously. Honestly, they weren’t in junior high, they were two middle aged men damn it. This… Drama was ridiculous. Suddenly he had the thought of Walter wearing one of those pairs of booty shorts that say “DRAMA QUEEN” in thick white letters, and he has to repress a laugh.

 

He regains his composure, decides to try to defuse the situation. “Look, Rorschach-“ Dan pauses for a moment, preparing for the inevitable scissor kick- “Walter.” He cringes instinctively, recoils, but Rorschach just blinks mechanically. Dan gathers his courage, and continues. “That happened because I wanted it. God I wanted it so badly. Maybe it was a mistake if you really are this… Disgusted by it. But I personally don’t regret it.” He bites the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, scratches the back of his head. “We don’t have anything left but each other. We’re middle aged washed up adventurers.” He sees the anger on Walter’s face, and gulps. “I mean, uh I am. A-and, the ‘great’ Ozymandias. A man we used to work with turned out to be some… Some mad scientist , and-“

 

“-Not mad scientist; monster.”

 

“Well, yeah. Point is, if we breathe one word of what happened then we’re dead. The only reason I bother getting up anymore is the chance I’ll see you. You’re the only real thing left. The only thing that isn’t based on his lies and mass deceit. So why does this have to be evil? Why does the only positive thing I’ve felt since Karnak have to be bad?” Dan finishes, wishing he could make Rorschach understand. Rorschach doesn’t respond at first, just stares at Dan, face about as readable as ink on black paper. Dan massages his tear ducts, squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. Damn it he didn’t need this kind of stress, not with the prospect of killing Veidt fresh on his mind.

 

Then, slowly, he remembers, almost like a dream that is forgotten until the memories are randomly triggered. At first it’s a slow trickle; they had cuddled and then Dan said something, had said he loved Walter, and then Walter had said… Had told him he…

 

Walter Kovacs had uttered, in the dark room filled with the musky scent of sweat and sex that he loved Daniel. Dan’s eyes widen, hand dropping from his face. The doubt he had been fostering is erased; Walter, Rorschach, whoever he is, he loves him. His adams apple bobs as he stops towards Walter.

 

“Bad because I let myself be weak Daniel.” Rorschach grates, looking incredibly tired, and Daniel doesn’t want him to leave even though he knows he’s about to, because then Walter will be lost again, senselessly pounding into other’s flesh, trying to erase his guilt about Karnak by causing pain. Daniel, ever so gently, puts his arms around Walter; waits for the inevitable blow to the groin. But he just stands there, lettingDaniel hold him, limp like a ragdoll.

 

“You’re not weak. Not anymore than everyone else.” He says firmly, cautiously leaning down, kissing Walter who’s unpleasantly dry lips part below him with an uncharacteristic warm sigh.

 

But calloused hands plant themselves firmly on his chest, push him back softly. Walter studies him carefully. “Not gay Daniel.” He croaks, wiping his lips with the back of his wrist roughly, staring at his hand in disgust.

 

“Well then what the hell was last night?” Dan says placing one hand on his hip and leaning on the table. “I don’t want to play games.”

 

Walter shakes his head, and Dan winces at the bags that hang under the brown eyes, at the pallid complexion, cheekbones becoming more and more prominent by the day, jutting up under spatters of freckles. Walter will wind up dead soon, Dan knows it, knows that even this thing between them will not suffice to save him. “Not… playing games Daniel.” He mutters, opening Dan’s fridge. He rifles around aimlessly, then shuts the door. Dan frowns; he didn’t take anything. Rorschach always takes something. Daniel walks over to him cautiously.

 

“Look, I’ll… I’ll wash your clothes. You have some food or something.”

 

“…Be done soon? Wanted to do some work. Need clothes by then.” Rorschach says, relaxing slightly. Daniel nods in response.

 

“Yeah, um… I wanted to talk to you later too.” Rorschach stiffens again; obviously he assumes that Dan wants to talk more about their “relationship,” and Dan laughs nervously, knowing Rorschach isn’t exactly the “touchy feely” type.

 

“No. I mean about, uh, Veidt.” He elaborates, scooping the pile of dirty clothes from the table, staring at the grubby things with evident disdain. Rorschach grunts, rummaging through the cupboards now.

 

“Just as unpleasant a topic of discussion, Daniel.” He seems pretty occupied as he pushes past tin cans of vegetables and fruit, and Daniel takes the opportunity to edge up behind him, clutching the wad of dirty clothes to his chest like a security blanked. His leg cracks, and Rorschach freezes. If Dan’s going to do this, he better do it now, before he gets a concussion from the small lithe frame before him. He quickly wraps his arms around Walter’s torso, heart thumping with the knowledge that this cannot possibly end well. Shitshitshit this is the neck of a fucking killer that he leans in and kisses, but the idea of a Walter that has actually bathed is such a temptation that he can’t stop himself.

 

“For future reference,” he whispers in as sexy a tone as a chubby middle aged man can muster, “scrubbing me off in the shower isn’t going to work.” And then he presses a kiss just below the ear that has flushed bright red and dashes out of the kitchen, trying not to laugh as he imagines Rorschach’s face right now, about the flush spreading beneath freckled cheeks, about how the brown eyes are probably the circumference of dinner plates. The task is made easier as he remembers that he needs to think about Veidt, about what exactly he plans to propose to Rorschach once he’s cleaned the man’s filthy laundry. He should try to be serious right now, but it’s difficult when he’s experiencing the first scattered instances of joy that he’s had in months.

 

It becomes very difficult when he hears Rorschach cursing his name in the kitchen, the hallway carrying the strains of “damns” and “bastards” and “jewish fags” to his ears.

 

Daniel Dreiberg burst out in laughter, thoughts of assassinating New York’s most beloved citizen temporarily taking backseat to a red haired lunatic.


	8. Chapter 8

The laundry is finished, crisply folded and neatly stacked. Daniel puts Rorschach’s clothing separate; carries it to the ironing board almost reverently. He runs his fingers over every article of clothing, purple pinstripes and trench coat pooling up with wrinkles where he touches, smooth and sweet scented. He does feel slightly embarrassed by his behavior but he can’t help himself. This is Rorschach’s clothing; he wears them every night, judging by the state they were in before the wash. Daniel irons them, folds them neatly, set them aside. Even after the thorough wash they still retain some dreg of Rorschach’s scent; of blood and dark alleys, of New York. And of something distinctly more human; of Walter, a musky swirl of something almost pleasant. But maybe Daniel imagines it. Maybe the only thing he smells is the detergent, so strong it’s almost sickening.

Either way, he finishes his task, shuffles upstairs tiredly and showers. Vigorously he scrubs, until his skin is pink and the results of the last night are swirling down his drain, sweat and the like.

So he’s done with his chores and returns to the kitchen. Rorschach is sitting in a chair, facing towards a wall. His expression is non-existent; Dan flinches. A few cans are empty on the table, lids lolling out like horrible metal tongues.

“Were you sitting here the whole time?” He asks, placing Walter’s clothes in front of him on the table. Walter glances at him and then inspects his clothes carefully. Dan sighs; what does he expect to be wrong with them? Does he think Dan planted a damn bomb or something? Placed a tracking device?

“Hm. Thank you.” Rorschach grunts finally, pushing the clothes to the side. “To answer question, yes. Was thinking of tonight’s patrol. Problems with some katie-heads.” Daniels sighs. There’s still crime in Adrian’s utopia; initially there had been a lull as everyone embraced their fellow man, spouted cheap lines about peace and love. But soon the initial shock of the monster’s appearance wore off people went back to their old ways. Drugs, rape, murder. The media keeps it all nicely swept under the rug, and Dan suspects that Adrian’s bribing the media. Rorschach pushes away from the table and stands up, grabbing the clothes from the table and shifting uncomfortably.

“You’re leaving?” Dan asks, already knowing the answer. “Well, like I said, I wanted to talk. About A-… About him.”

Rorschach scrutinizes him carefully, nods. “Not here though. Later.”

“Why later?” Dan asks, grabbing the cans, (upon closer inspection he finds that they originally contained peaches,) and tossing them into the trashcan. He frowns and stands a moment, staring at the cans, saccharine sweet fluid dripping from the rims, akin to gaping mouths drooling. It’s unusual; he’s stocked up on plenty of beans and cereal, and peaches aren’t part of Rorschach’s “typical” diet. He’s always assumed that the man has one of his odd conspiracy theories concerning them; thinks they transform you into a liberal or something equally outlandish.

He makes a mental note to inventory the contents of his kitchen so that he can tell what Rorschach takes, get a better idea of how healthy he eats; god knows he’s been wasting away, what little positive habits he once possessed, (few and far between,) deteriorated.

Rorschach is already dressed by the time Dan turns away, pulling his eyes from the trash. He raises his eyebrows as Rorschach dons the finishing touches; his “face”, his hat, his gloves scarf and overcoat. It’s the first time Dan has ever stopped to think about how many damn layers the other man wears on a nightly basis. How the hell can he stand wearing all of that? He comes back to reality as Rorschach tosses the borrowed clothes back to him and fumbles to grasp them successfully. Rorschach walks to the basement door, apparently planning to take the tunnel.

Dan sighs, rubs his head. “I said why later?”

Opening the door, Rorschach looks back over his shoulder and his mask swirls almost contemplatively. “Need to get going; also, not safe to talk here. Know you’ve been out of the game awhile but assumed you had retained some amount of competency.”

Dan bristles at the insult; Rorschach is just… So… Abrasive. But he reminds himself that the other man can’t help it, should probably be on medicine, (although Dan would never voice this opinion; he does have some survival instincts after all.) He closes his eyes; deep breath, deep breath. Alright, he’s fine again, normal complacent little Dan Dreiberg, letting anyone and anything with feet walk all over him. What pieces of Nite Owl he had once grasped were shattered by Karnak, like so much else, and he knows that Rorschach resents him for it.

“Alright.” He says, pushing away the bangs that threaten to encroach on his forehead.

Rorschach nods, goes to leave and then pauses. “Can come with me Daniel.” He grunts, turning away with what appears to be shyness; in all truthfulness he’s simply preparing to shut the door behind him.

“Rorschach… you know I can’t.” Daniel says softly, putting his hand on his neck, looking down in shame. “But please, be-“the door makes a soft thunk as it shuts. Rorschach is gone. “-Careful.” He finishes to the empty room in exasperation, turning with a sigh. He drops the clothes angrily; kicks them. They skid jerkily across the smooth tile floor, stopping as they arrive at the base of the stove. He watches, but derives no joy from the outburst.

“… Damn it.” He mutters, striding over and stooping to scoop up the wrinkled garments.

Daniel Dreiberg is many things; an ex-hero, living a lie, in what might be considered love with his only remaining friend. But one thing he is not is messy.

He sleeps terribly that night; mainly because he’s tried unsuccessfully to wait up for Rorschach. He makes the mistake of doing this in his bed in an attempt to hide the fact that we was waiting up for the other man.

Everything is fine until about 2 a.m. when his mind loses interest in the owling magazine and his body begins to crash down from its self induced caffeine high. And so, he falls asleep on top of a page featuring a glossy photo spread of a snowy owl, glasses on the stand next to him, saliva pooling on an owl’s wide eye.

He sleeps relatively sound, burrowed into his pillow in an attempt to shield his eyes from the dim glow of the bedside lamp. At some point he enters the state of being half awake; able to gather basic sensory information but unable to anchor himself to reality. The insides of his eyelids burn gold and he mumbles unintelligibly, fumbles for and somehow manages to turn off the light; he also manages to knock a stack of books over, although the latter goes unnoticed.

And he snuggles into the sheets, clutching a pillow to his bare chest as he has every night since Karnak; especially on those which lend him no sleep. He takes refuge in the world of soft smooth comfort that envelops him; a world where pain and death do not exist. As elusive as it’s been, sleep is Daniel Dreiberg’s favorite time on the rare occasions when it is not accompanied by nightmares featuring squid-like monsters and dead children and arriving 35 minutes too late.

As he lays there something changes; a new scent pervades his senses, something oddly comforting. It’s deep and musky; the scent of dark alleys and smothered sweat, of dirt and the irony tang of blood. They should be unpleasant but they instead sooth Daniel, cradle him in their distinct odor.

There’s a noise; somebody’s walking towards his bed. They breathe heavily, almost labored, slow exhales scraping over their throat like jagged glass. Dan struggles to pull himself towards the noise, writhing in his bed, unable to wake; but he continues to hear the slow breathing, still unable to identify the source.

He’s walking towards the noise, through a garden of varying shades of gray; he sees something before him, knows it’s the noise’s originator. He struggles fruitlessly forward, the air thick around him like sludge, dragging his limbs down and down and down. The figure ahead is white, black splotches forming on its otherwise featureless body; they look almost like a butterfly, delicate and simple. There’s a weight next to him, tilting the ground he stands on down, he can feel it.

“Daniel.”

The ink blots shift on their white background; Daniel squints tries to discern what they are forming as the weight pulls him down, knocks him over. As he falls, slow as the molasses his grandmother used to make on his rare visits, he can see it; the spots glide together, create the outlines of two skeletons locked in an embrace, figures he’s dreamed of once before. Terror racks his body, and the weight pulls him down steadily, and something’s grabbing him, making his body quake in two shaking bursts.

“Daniel.”

Dan is pulled from his vision of the Hiroshima lovers with the shake and the growl of his name. His eyes blink open slowly, lids heavy. The moon that seeps through his window illuminates the man which sits next to him on the mattress. He squints, rubs his eyes groggily.

“…Rorschach.” He mumbles finally. Oh shit. Rorschach. He clears his throat, propping himself up with tired twitching muscles. Rorschach is still fully in costume other than his shoes, trench-coat, scarf, and hat which Dan realizes have been deposited on the old high backed chair in the corner. He scratches his head, stares uneasily at the man who sits but two inches from him, body ridged and blotted mask turned in Dan’s direction. For one horrible moment he can almost see the blackened skeletons, grinning jaws pressed together in a macabre kiss, reflected on his friend’s “face.”

“…Back.” Rorschach grunts and the lovers dissolve, form several large blobs of nothing; Daniel relaxes, sliding back into a laying position and covering his face with an arm, snuggling back down into the covers like an owlet into its mother’s soft downy feathers. Rorschach is sitting suspiciously close, and his weight on the mattress pulls Daniel’s body down towards him; legs press into Rorschach’s back accidentally, and instead of jumping back in disgust as Daniel expects Rorschach just sits there, shifting mask still staring at Daniel in what may be construed as fascination. Daniel peeks out from under his arm uncomfortably, moves the appendage away with a sigh.

“Look Rorschach what do you want? I’m not getting up this early-“ here he glances at the clock, not actually knowing what time it is, but yes, it is as ungodly an hour as expected, “-just to go to some warehouse and have a conversation that’s essentially with myself.”

Rorschach shakes his head in a curt, stiff manner; left, right, back to center. “Not why I’m here Daniel.” He says, much softer than usual but still with the obligatory sandpaper edge. Rorschach reaches up, pushing his mask to the bridge of his nose. Daniel can see a few large splashes of blood on the other man’s pant legs; dry and, thankfully, not his. He squirms uncomfortably as Rorschach reveals his jaw, blunt and riddled with fiery specks of stubble.

“Well then what-… Mphg!” His words are silenced, the rest of the sentence lost in the back of his throat as Rorschach crushes their lips together clumsily, hands on either side of Daniel’s head. Dan’s eyes widen in surprise as the chapped lips press into his own and he lets out another small exclamation as Rorschach pulls gently on his lower lip with slightly crooked and certainly unclean teeth. He opens his mouth to protest, unsure what exactly is happening, but Rorschach uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue fervently exploring Daniel’s teeth. Daniel relaxes, kisses back, mulling over the odd mixture of sugar and dirt that Rorschach tastes of. He tries to sit up, to place his hand on Rorschach’s neck but is instead shoved down into the mattress; Rorschach leans over him, odd humming noises rumbling in his throat.

“Rorschach… Is something wrong?” Daniel questions between pants as the kiss is broken; Rorschach is inches from his face, black swirls shifting lazily across the white fabric of his scrunched up mask.

“Everything.” He answers dismissively; one hand still cups Daniel’s flushed face in a rather rough manner, fingers curling tightly into the brown locks of hair that lay untamed. Daniel’s brow creases distinctly and he opens his mouth in preparation to question the evasive nature of the answer. But instead he is once again silenced by the other man’s lips, thin and unforgiving in their voracious assault on his mouth.

Daniel prepares to shove the other man off, to see what’s going on; but when a hand trails down, strokes his crotch insistently he just moans into the warm mouth above him, relaxes his tensed muscles.

Fuck it. He’s lonely, he’s desperate for any contact with Walter, and if he goes through with his plan for Veidt… Well, this might be their last chance. Their last chance to feel a brief spark in a world that’s made them numb.

Rorschach continues to rub Daniel through his pants as they kiss until a full erection presses into his hand eagerly. He slips his hand into Daniel’s sleep pants, lightly brushes the sensitive flesh with his calloused fingers; Daniel bucks into the touch and their lips part. Dan tries to unzip Rorschach’s pinstriped trousers and return the favor, large sweaty hands grasping in the dark. But he’s smacked away and Rorschach shoves him back down, retracts his hand from Daniel’s aching member.

“Wha-“

“Daniel.” Rorschach cuts him off, and Dan’s cock twitches at the brusque tone, at the fact that oh god he was just kissing a still masked Rorschach, Rorschach had been touching him while wearing it. Daniel bites his lower lip and succumbs to the knowledge that his costume fetish is still as strong as before, as that night on the owl ship with Laurie. This was an anomaly; Rorschach would never do this, would never sully his mask with such lewd behavior. For Christ sakes, the man practically worships the thing. But he knows deep down the truth of the matter; this was another thing Karnak had broken, another product of the disaster that had befallen the citizens of New York. Rorschach had already betrayed his mask by leaving Karnak without stopping Adrian, without even exposing the lie that was perpetrated to the masses in the guise of salvation. His typical moral rigidity was now torn asunder because he had compromised just that once. A thing Rorschach would never do, but something Walter had. And so, doing these things with Daniel was probably a portion of Rorschach’s own private hell, as torturous as they were wonderful.

Rorschach seems to think for a moment, head cocked to the side like a confused mongrel dog. Daniel stays perfectly till, knowing he’ll just be shoved away again if he moves. Finally after what seems like an eternity, (to Daniel’s blood-rushed penis at least,) Rorschach stands and undresses quickly, back turned to Daniel. His mask goes first, folded carefully and placed on the chair though the rest is tossed unceremoniously to the floor. Dan sits up for a moment and watches layer after layer being shed, softly thumping as they’re tossed into the corner. His eyes slide over all of the freckles, tiny galaxies spread haphazardly across white skin, firm muscle, and jutting bones. Walter shoots him a look of annoyance over his shoulder and Daniel quickly turns away, pulls himself up and slides off his sleep pants and underwear. He sits on the edge of the bed, patiently waiting in the nude, too old and too tired to be embarrassed. After all, he used to run around in an owl suit every night; it’s not as if he can be mortified easily.

Rorschach finishes and climbs onto the bed awkwardly. They still haven’t figured out the mechanics of this thing between them, but they both ignore the imperfection and Daniel knows Walter probably doesn’t even notice it. It’s not like he has anything else to compare it to. Daniel leans forward and captures him in a kiss, and as weird as the situation still seems its oddity is rivaled by the general feeling in his gut that this is right because they’re alive.

They trade kisses, gentle strokes, soft moans. Hands linger in forbidden areas, stroking languidly, and they end up lying down, Walter pressed into the mattress beneath Dan’s bulk. Daniel trails kisses down the smaller man’s collar bone, suckling at bits of dappled skin, nipping gently at others. He nuzzles into Walter, savors the sensation of slick skin on his own, of the erection that presses eagerly just above his own. He lies on Walter for a moment; takes in the distinct scent, the smell of the man beneath the mask.

“Daniel.” Walter grunts, fingers tangled in Dan’s hair possessively as the man in question ghosts his hands over cuts and bruises, scars both old and new. Daniel can hear the urgent edge to Walter’s voice and he sits up, crawls over to the nightstand. He fumbles through a drawer for a moment, cursing as he drops a large portion of the contents on the floor; assorted knickknacks and crumpled papers scatter as they hit the carpeting. But he finds the small bottle he’s been searching for, ignoring the mess he leaves in his wake as he turns to find Walter kneeling beside him. They press their lips together, arms and legs tangling in a bizarre knot as they tumble together to the mattress, the click of teeth and dull pants of two middle aged men now the only audible sound in the room. Daniel flicks the lid of the bottle open with a click, struggling to keep his mouth over Walter’s as he squeezes the lubricant onto his hand. He’s straddling the bony hips beneath him as their tongues swirl together and Walter claws at his back desperately.

He separates their mouths with a final drag of his teeth on Walter’s bruised lips. “Uh, I gotta, um…” He stumbles over the words, settles for coating both of their erections with the gel in his hands and wincing at the coolness that contrasts horribly with the burning in his groin. “Aah, gotta… So we won’t chafe.” He moans in incoherent explanation, and Walter bucks into his hand, fingers digging into Daniel’s fleshy sides, using the love handles as literal handles. As he finishes, knowing they’re both adequately prepared, he rubs their cocks together experimentally, eliciting an “enk” from Walter; at this Dan smiles, slightly parted lips loosing his heavy breath. But then Walter pushes him off, breaks the delicious contact.

“No Daniel. Want… Want to…” He appears flustered, another of the many characteristics that Daniel has never seen in him and expects never to see again. He looks slightly annoyed at his inability to vocalize his thoughts, and Daniel nods, rubs his arm encouragingly. Walter presses his head into Daniel’s chest, more to hide his face than to show affection, and his stubble scrapes so roughly that Dan flinches, pulls away a bit. “Want you. To… Have sex with me.” He finally manages to finish, and Daniel realizes that Walter is trying to indicate something much more than the quick hand jobs they traded the other day.

He is extremely aroused by this.

“O-oh.” He says, cock twitching again as he gazes dumbfounded on Walter who turns awkwardly onto his stomach still avoiding Dan’s eyes. Apparently, the foreplay is over. Daniel’s heart flutters and he pushes himself onto his knees, grabs Walter’s hips uncertainly. He’s never… Done this before. Obviously. Almost every girl he’s been with has been shy about sex; would only participate in coitus based on the missionary position. Not that Daniel has ever had the balls to ask for anything more; they kinkiest sex he’s ever had was with Laurie that night onboard Archimedes. The memory pains him and he quickly pushes it away, focuses on the task at hand.

Laurie isn’t here, is in all likelihood gone forever. Rorschach, no, Walter is here, is wriggling beneath him as he pulls his hips up, as he presses a finger into the tight entrance nervously, then a second, gently pushing them in and out. Walter is the one digging his fingers into the sheets, making a small “hnnk” sound and pressing his cheek into the mattress. Walter is there as Daniel replaces the fingers with his erection, liberally applying more lubricant as Daniel rocks into him, amazed at how tight and warm Walter is and at the small whimpers that come from his former partner. It’s Walter, not Laurie, and Daniel finds himself being much more ok with that then any heterosexual man should be.

Walter’s muscles spasm against Daniel’s cock, so tight it practically hurts even as it sends shivers of pleasure up Dan’s spine. “Ror… Walter. Relax.” He murmurs, sitting reluctantly still for a moment, allowing the other man to adjust. Walter digs his fingers into the sheets, (Daniel realizes insanely that he’ll have to wash them again after tonight,) and nods.

“Keep. Going.” Walter hisses, pressing back against Dan; Daniel’s eyelids flutter, his mouth drops open. Oh god nothing should feel this good, he shouldn’t be allowed to have such euphorically pleasurable sensations after what’s happened.

He starts slowly; shallow thrusts as he kisses Walter’s back comfortingly, mumbling apologies and assurances of how wonderful this is. Soon Walter relaxes the muscles that clench around Daniel, begins to enjoy it even, to let out small moans. Daniel focuses on this, ignores the small drops of blood that have fallen to the mattress below. Daniel speeds up, head thrown back carelessly because good lord this is just so amazing, and Walter’s crying out softly below him, curly course red hair tangling itself around Daniel’s fingers as he wraps an arm around the quaking frame and fists Walter’s cock in rhythm with the shaky thrusts.

“W-Walter.” Daniel huffs, the movement of his hips speeding slowly, becoming jerkier. Walter is a mess beneath him, breath ragged, knuckles rapping on the headboard in a dull staccato with each of Daniel’s thrusts. Sharp shoulder blades jut under the man’s skin, rotate and heave with their owner’s body. They’re both casting out noises of lust and shame and primal pleasure, bodies writhing desperately, hands clasping at whatever is closest, and three names spill into the air now and then; Daniel, Walter, Rorschach. The former tumbles from Walter’s lips as he comes, seed spilling into Daniel’s hand fluidly. A mixture of the latter two subsequently come from Daniel shortly afterwards; an odd hybrid of the two names he knows for the one thing he loves, the thing that’s split seamlessly down the middle and whole all the same. Walter the man and Rorschach the intangible entity. Daniel’s spent and when he finishes, coming in Walter jerkily, he throws his head back and squeezes Walter’s hips hard enough to leave small purplish bruises.

Breathing still sparse, heart thumping spastically, Daniel slides out from Walter, whose face remains buried in the sheets, muffled pants leaving damp splotches on the mattress. Daniel grabs a small blanket from amongst them; cleans the hot sticky fluid from himself and then from Walter, where it’s pooled between his buttocks. He collapses next to the other man and passes him the stained blanked; Walter uses it to clean his privates as well, tosses it off of the bed carelessly.

“That was… Great…” Daniel groans, but Walter turns onto his side, back displayed to Dan, a canvas of pain and a hard life. Most of the scars are fairly fresh, products of Rorschach’s new found carelessness, red and ridged. Daniel stretches his arm out, (and when did it get so heavy, as if his life’s been sapped from his already weary limbs?) breath slowly evening out again, and runs his fingers gently over the map of his ex partner’s life; a life he knows nothing about, other than it’s been long and painful. Walter tenses, then relaxes again; slumps into Daniel’s arms. One scar in particular drags over one bony shoulder and down Walter’s back. It’s old unlike the rest, whiter than the pale skin that frames it. It’s disjointed in several areas as if it’s been stretched too thin, and Daniel remembers reading that this is a sign that it was inflicted at a young age; Walter has grown so much since then that it was forced to span further out, disconnect. God, Walter would have been a child when this happened, innocent and defenseless. Daniel wraps the man tightly in his arms, kisses the choppy red haired temple, hums soothingly and pretends not to hear the soft sobbing noises or to feel the small tear that drops onto his hand and slides down his knuckle.

No, Daniel Dreiberg doesn’t know a thing about Walter’s past and he doesn’t want or even need to. Not to understand that it was terrible, not to know that the man is broken. They lay there, sweat drying along with Walter’s solitary tear, wiped out from not only their sex but from the sheer effort of living.

But Daniel realizes lucidly as he drifts to sleep that it’s not Walter who’s broken, and nor is it Rorschach. It’s the world.


	9. Chapter 9

This time when Daniel wakes up Rorschach is still there.

It’s surprising to say the least; as Daniel opens his sleep heavy eyes he fully expects to be alone. Something wedges into his ribs uncomfortably, sharp and insistent. When he sees it’s an elbow, an elbow attached to a body, a body attached to a Walter he lets out a “mph!” of surprise and claps a hand to his mouth.

Walter is sleeping; his limbs are splayed, jutting at odd almost inhuman angles, (one of which is still poking at Daniel’s ribcage,) sheet tangled around his frame in what vaguely resembles a toga. Even in his sleep he doesn’t smile, expression blank but somehow foreboding and Daniel takes the opportunity to appraise the odd features that make up Walter’s face. Most people would say Walter is ugly, but Daniel disagrees. Certainly he’s not handsome; not even attractive, but something about his face is pleasing, interesting to look at, the mash up of distinctive features intriguing; high cheekbones, scattered freckles, thin lips press firmly together. Daniel shifts closer, dislodging Walter’s arm from where it’s firmly planted, and squints in an attempt to better study the face he rarely gets a glimpse of. Walter’s nose is what one would refer to as a “pug nose,” the bridge of it bumpy, obvious evidence of a previously break.

Daniel reaches forward, lightly runs his fingers through the red hair; it’s surprisingly soft, sticking up unevenly in areas, clinging to the skull in others.

“Daniel.” Dan’s eyes go wide, his hand freezing. So, Walter is awake then.

“Uh, sorry.” He responds sheepishly, retracting his hand from what appears to be a very annoyed Walter who stares at him blankly; a shiver shoots up Dan’s spine. He will never voice it but the fact is that Walter has a knack for being, well… Creepy. Even without his mask.

“Cover your eyes.” Walter says finally, eyes locked on Daniel to make sure the command is obeyed. Daniel opens his mouth dumbfounded; shuts it.

“Well, uh, why?”

“Close. Your. Eyes.” The command is issued again and Daniel groans, clasps his hand over his eyes in compliance.

“Fine.”

There are snatches of sound; the creak of the mattress, the rustling of cloth. Oh. Walter doesn’t want to be seen naked apparently. Daniel rolls onto his stomach and presses his cheek into the pillow, facing away from the other man. He can’t help but think that it’s a tad late for Walter to get shy about such things.

The rustlings stop and Daniel hesitates then lifts his head, glancing at where Rorschach stands, now fully dressed. Daniel wishes he would shower first, because he’s just washed those clothes the other damn day, and now they’re soiled. Again.

“Aren’t you gonna clean up?” He asks hopefully, tossing a pleading look at the swirling blots.

“Hm. No time. Coming?”

“Com-?.. Where?”

“To talk. Your idea.” Rorschach grunts, shrugging stiffly. Daniel sighs, glances at the clock. Well, this is the best he’s slept in so long and he’s a bit reluctant to abandon that. On the other hand however, Rorschach is right; Daniel is the one who suggested they talk and he had better “get while the getting’s good” so to speak.

“Fine.” He sighs, sitting up and stretching his aching muscles. Rorschach flinches, obviously uncomfortable with Dan’s blatant nudity. Daniel notes with both sympathy and amusement that Walter stands rather oddly; apparently, a specific area pains him. A specific area located where he sits, to be exact. “Gimme a sec.” Dan murmers tiredly, attempting to restrain the urge to ask if he’s hurt Walter. Obviously, such an inquiry would not be met well.

He doesn’t have to say it twice; Rorschach grunts an approval and then he’s out the door, eager no doubt to escape the scene of their crime. Daniel’s bones ache and he wonders if he’s ready for this; ready to set his admittedly vague plan into action. Ready to possibly shove Rorschach over the precipice of insanity that his legs already dangle over, because rekindling the obsession might be the death of them and most certainly will be the breaking point as far as common sense goes. But nonetheless the wheels of his mind have been set into motion and they can’t be stopped, not after he’s delved into the fact that if they let Veidt go unchecked than they’re no better than him, he who played god and succeeded. Yes, Veidt’s plan had worked, at least insofar as that nuclear Armageddon was temporarily averted. Or, hell, maybe permanently; Dan doesn’t know. But he had wrought such terror on the streets of New York, had decided to use half of it’s citizenry as unwilling martyrs, and who was he to decide, who was Adrian fucking Veidt to choose for the world. Yes, it was inevitable, inevitable that children would lay with their skulls cracked open, that lovers would die in pools of each other’s blood, but Veidt had chosen who would be sacrificed in the name of world peace and it disturbs Daniel to no end. Who was Ozymandias to save the world with such a damning action?

No, Dan has to do this and he knows it, knows it in his ageing bones and his slackening gut. So he pulls himself out of bed and dresses, ignores the part of his brain that insists he wear his Owl Suit. Instead he dons his typical attire, slacks, sweater vest, nerdy tie. He goes to find Rorschach, locates him in the obvious place; the Owl’s Nest. He sees him climb expectantly into Archie and his gut clenches uneasily because he knows. Knows he’ll be putting that damned suit on again soon. He follows reluctantly, ignoring the way his costume seems to glare ominously at him from its case, clambering into Archie as if he hasn’t done this a million times before. Rorschach is already seated so Daniel takes his lead, flopping into his designated position.

They just sit there; Daniel in the pilot’s seat, remembering for the first time in quite a while how nicely it contours to his back. After a few awkward moments, Rorschach breaks the silence, sitting stiffly in his own chair.

“Know a warehouse, safe place to talk. Can go there.”

Daniel sighs, massages his temples. How had he known that’s what the other man would suggest? Dingy streets and dusty warehouses. Almost nostalgic, in a way. “No, Archie should be fine. I have all kinds of security stuff on him; no one should’ve had a chance to tamper with anything.”

Rorschach sits still, seeming to mull over Dan’s words. Daniel in turn shifts uncomfortably, avoids looking at the black splotches that drift across his partner’s face. He hates that mask, hates the way it wordlessly implicates how weak he is, what a coward he is for not being able to don his costume once more as Rorschach does in the black of night every night. Hates how much he simultaneously loves it, how many fantasies he once had of Rorschach shoving him up against a wall during patrol and kissing him through it, probing tongues searching each other out in desperate swipes over latex, adrenaline from busting in some junkie’s head pulsing through their veins and fueling the encounter.

He reminds himself that he does help, volunteers so much of his time at the shelters; but an undermining notion always prevails in these instances. He’s a coward, a failure, old, and Rorschach will die one of these nights without Daniel there to save him, to pull his fist from a shattered face, to tell him when it’s time to stop. Even if the body lives, Rorschach will die just like Walter did, and he’ll be left with a shell, a coma-like zombie who will never speak again, never steal his canned goods, never do whatever it is happened last night and the night previous.

“Could have been bugged.” Rorschach asserts, pulling Daniel back to reality if such a thing exists.

Daniel blinks, tries to refocus his mind. He runs his fingers through his bangs, clears his throat. “Hm. I mean, no, no… I told you I would know if somebody’s been in here; Archie’s security features are top notch.” Here he illustrates by patting Archie’s dash affectionately, coming away with a thin layer of dust. He frowns at his dirty phalanges, wipes them on his pants leaving small streaks of gray in their wake. “He shorts out any bugs or unwanted electronic devices through a different version of the screecher. I installed that shortly after…” He trails off, reluctant to revive the event. “Well, you know… Anyways, it functions on a distinct frequency unperceivable to the human ear; I based it off of some early studies done by the-“

“Daniel.” Rorschach cuts him off; Daniel shuts his mouth, gives and embarrassed smile.

“Uh, sorry. I know how I ramble sometimes.”

“So. Wanted to talk?” Rorschach says, more of a statement than a question as far as intonation goes. He’s stiff as a corpse entering rigor mortis, hands clamped to his legs. Obviously he wishes to get right to the point, not to chat with Dan about obscure studies perpetrated by the U.S. government years ago on feasible ways to disarm spy equipment.

“Yeah…” Daniel adjusts his glasses nervously. “Look, we both… We both feel the same. About what happened.” He pauses, looks over at the other man to gauge his reaction. All that meets his eyes is fluid black on white. “About Karnak.” He finishes.

Rorschach looks straight ahead as per usual, pretends not to notice Daniel’s desperate attempt at eye contact. “Not so sure, Daniel. Not anymore. Not after seeing you sit back and do nothing; won’t even clean scum off the streets anymore.”

Daniel’s heart sinks; so, that’s what Rorschach thinks of him? That he’s not only a coward but agrees with Veidt’s actions?

“How… How can you even say that? You know that’s not the truth. I’ve helped- I volunteer almost every day, I donate…” Daniel says weakly, not sure he believes himself either. As if passing out bread and repaving roads is enough to atone for what he’s done by letting Adrian’s plot succeed.

Rorschach turns his head, looks at Daniel; every shape, every blot that forms there on that mask seeming to accuse him, to taunt him. Coward. Weakling. You’re no hero. You never were. Never were anything but a foolish dreamer. Even Rorschach’s tone as he speaks now possesses an accusatory lilt, and Daniel flinches. “Hah. Help. Admirable, but just a temporary solution to a quickly surmounting problem.

Daniel lowers his head, clutches it in his hands. He’s quickly developing a migraine, he can’t stand to look at the mask anymore, to receive its jeering messages. Coward. You’re a coward. “That’s not…”

“It’s the truth.” Rorschach snarls standing up stiffly, hands clenched at his sides. “You’re taking his handouts Daniel. Let him wipe your record clean; destroy all evidence of our little ‘excursions.’ Probably killed any surviving cops that had seen the evidence and refused to comply. Even got to keep your house Daniel. Never mentioned in press again, barring a brief mention of your proved innocence.”

Daniel looks up, pathetic, face creased with guilt and shame. “No, that’s not… Those cops, they all died when that thing arrived. A-and everybody was too busy with grieving and cleaning up to remember me, they just lost the case file, that’s all. That’s why they cleared me of all charges, that’s why the press printed my innocence.

Rorschach snorts, hands clenched into fists so tightly the leather of his gloves creaks in protest. “Without even checking your house again Daniel? No. Veidt paid them off, swept everything under the rug for you. To buy your silence.”

“But I didn’t ask him to, I never-“

“Haven’t done anything about what happened though. Haven’t done what’s right.”

Daniel jumps up, grabs Rorschach’s lapels. He’s overcome with rage, at the things that Rorschach says and implies, at himself, at Veidt, at everything. The bliss of the last night isn’t enough to make his knuckles cease to itch for a swift punch of his shorter companion. “And what have you done Rorschach?” He yells, shaking the smaller man who simply stands there steadfastly, hands jammed into his pockets. “What have you done?” He whimpers weakly, afraid of the emotions that whirl inside him, consumed by feelings he hasn’t really allowed himself to express, remnants of Karnak and Laurie, of failure and anger and a general sense of why.

Dan stands there, knuckles white, fingers digging into Rorschach’s coat desperately. His breathing is sped up from his outburst, heart thudding steadily against his ribs. But Rorschach just stares back, rigid and unfaltering. Finally, he shoves him off lightly, and Daniel staggers back, flops back into his chair, grasps his head in his hands. He does not dare to look back up.

“Daniel.” Rorschach says from somewhere near him; Daniel looks up reluctantly.

“What?”

“Did try. Sent journal to New Frontiersman previous to our trip. Contained enough evidence they should have been able to extrapolate the truth of what happened. Added follow up on return; small note indicating Veidt’s link to journal previously delivered.” Rorschach returns his hands calmly to his pockets.

Dan looks up at him incredulously, hands drifting shakily from his face. “You… You wha-… You didn’t.” But he knows that Rorschach wouldn’t lie, at least not about this, and his gut clenches because if it was printed then they were-

“Did.” Rorschach replies with a stiff shouldered shrug.

Daniel groans, closes his eyes. “You know this means we’re dead right? Fuck Rorschach, you realize it won’t make a difference besides sealing our fate? Nobody’ll believe that damned rag.”

Rorschach grunts, somehow managing to look offended despite being swathed head to toe in varying fabrics. “Wasn’t a rag.” He asserts, mask swimming with messages that Daniel doesn’t care to decode because they don’t mean anything, not really.

“… Wasn’t?” Dan questions, eye opening to a slit.

“Forced to shut down yesterday, reasons still unknown; suspect group of liberals funded by Veidt.”

Daniel feels a rush of relief. It’s surprising how strong his will to live is despite everything, and he wonders what possible reason he can have for really caring anymore. He tilts his head up, looks at Rorschach tiredly. “You realize that there are about a million people who would want to shut down those racists, including me. As for the fire it most likely wasn’t a crime of malice; probably some bored teenagers looking for trouble.”

Rorschach hurms, standing a few feet away in silence. “Daniel… Didn’t mean… Didn’t mean to upset you. Just feel so useless. Stuck busting petty criminals while Veidt goes unpunished.” He seems to look down at the floor like an ashamed child. Daniel’s heart pangs; the man is emotionally stunted as hell. It simultaneously infuriates him and touches him.

“Well you caught that child rapist last week.” Daniel offers meekly, leaning back into his seat. Secretly he thinks that Rorschach didn’t just catch the man, he’d killed him, left the dead body to rot in an abandoned building unceremoniously amongst a pool of its own blood. Not that the pederast had deserved any better. “But, uh, it’s OK. I can understand the whole ‘useless’ bit.” He smiles nervously, knowing how lucky he is to have evoked a semi-apology from Rorschach. In response Rorschach shakes his head curtly.

“Not the point.” He says in response to Daniel’s attempt at reassurance. “Veidt is still out there. Whole world practically worships him, ignorant to what he’s done.”

“Rorschach. You know he… He potentially saved the entire world from a nuclear holocaust.”

Rorschach snarls, pent up with fury he has no real outlet for, administering a vicious beating the only way to release it. Unfortunately, there were no pimps or drug addicts insight, and so his anger remains. “No excuse. Wasn’t for him to decide.”

“I- Look, I agree that what he did was wrong… He should have used his resources to find a better solution, to at least try. But we can’t just come out and tell the press the truth. They wouldn’t believe us; you’re, well, you, and they would obviously deduce who I am. Or, more accurately, who I was.”

“More important to stay out of jail rather than do the right thing?”

Daniel closes his eyes as the barbed comment latches onto him. Yes, he’s a coward. Rorschach knows it. “No. I just mean even if they did for some unconceivable reason believe us we would destroy the already fragile world peace that’s been forged and half of New York will have died for naught. And maybe the other half would die after we trigger a nuclear war.”

Rorschach sits down, obviously frustrated. The chair squeaks as he descends into it, body rigid, fingers flexing subtly through his gloves. “Well, what do you propose we-“

“We kill him.” Daniel interjects quietly, even as his insides twist and clench in his gut. He knows that he can’t rescind this now; once it’s been heard Rorschach will latch onto it, won’t stop gunning for Veidt until the deed has been done. Of course Rorschach has thought about it before, of course he’s plotted out every elaborate detail. But, it seems, he’s been waiting. Maybe because he’s afraid to endanger Daniel too, or maybe because he too has been subjected to treacherous thoughts such as Daniel’s. Thoughts that maybe Veidt was right. That he had done what was needed.

Rorschach nods solemnly, as if he expected this was coming, was just waiting for Daniel to gather up his meager courage and take the leap. He doesn’t say anything and Daniel shifts uncomfortably.

“Well, er… How do you think we should… I’ve been considering it and, um, I thought we could… Well I don’t really have much of a plan to be honest.” Daniel mumbles nervously, light perspiration dusting his forehead. It’s hot and stuffy in here despite Archie’s extensive ventilation system, and so Dan flicks on the air and leans back. “I just figure we should, well… Watch him. I know that he’s got pretty tight security, but…”

“Once a week he doesn’t.” Rorschach interjects, turning ever so slightly to face Dan.

“What?” Dan’s brow creases, and he looks at Rorschach with an escalating sense of unease.

“Veidt. Goes out, usually once a week. Alone.”

“Well uh, where does he go exactly?”

“Don’t know yet. Been watching but only attempted to tail him more recently, thought sloppiness seemed suspicious.”

“And?”

“… Lost him.” Rorschach admits, leaning back slightly in the chair. Daniel doesn’t pause to consider how worried he should be that Rorschach is in fact as obsessed with Veidt as he previously expected. This was, as a matter of fact, the apparent reason for Rorschach’s regular excursions in broad daylight, as risky as such things are. Daniel wonders how he can manage going unnoticed; unlike Daniel he had not been labeled innocent by Veidt’s connections, but dead.

“Well, I guess that’s where we’ll start then. Although I’m not sure how it’ll help us. Also, we’ll likely wind up dead; even if he’s alone let’s face it. He’s still stronger than the both of us.”

Rorschach gives his typical grunt, standing to leave. “Everyone has a weakness. Even world’s smartest man.” He says, and for a moment Daniel thinks he can actually hear a splinter of something in the other man’s voice; uncertainty.

As Rorschach exits, presumably to head back to whatever hovel he currently resides in Daniel slumps backwards and closes his tired eyes, not daring to ask the man to stay with him. Their relationship isn’t that simple, is so complex that he knows one wrong move will scare Rorschach away. For good this time. “I hope to god you’re right.” He whispers to the empty airship.

Somewhere in New York the world’s smartest man slumbers, unaware of his mistake, the flaw in his perfect plan, the chink in his diamond armor. Later on, he will realize what he’s done wrong.

He’s let Rorschach live.


	10. Chapter 10

They begin the next day, brief forays into the outside world, expeditions on which they watch from a distance the man who simultaneously saved and destroyed their lives.

He mainly works perched high in his office and they opt to eye the doors, keeping track of who enters and leaves. They are cautious above all else, (contradicting with the dangerous nature of this mission,) and wear street clothes out of necessity. It almost bothers Daniel to see Walter dressed this way; a button up long-sleeved shirt, slacks, the typical grimace. He had easily agreed with Daniel on the no-costume front, (even Rorschach who feels out of his element in anything else is capable of understanding that ink blot masks and purple pinstripes aren’t exactly inconspicuous,) but goading him into the new clean clothes and fake glasses was another story. Unfortunately the whole of New York had seen Rorschach un-masked thanks to Veidt, and even in the distracting wake of the “alien invasions” might recognize him yet. And so Dan had won, had gotten Walter into clothes which fit him well but did not suit him. In turn Daniel loses his glasses and let’s his hair fall naturally rather than slicking it back as usual, (Rorschach observed, with a derisive grunt, that he looked like a hippy the first day they went out.) Of course, it’s much less likely Daniel will be recognized being as his photograph hasn’t been stamped on every newspaper with such vigor as Rorschach’s, and he’s been proven “innocent” anyways. The real danger lies in Adrian recognizing him.

The first week is uneventful, proving only that Adrian is dedicated to various charities, is kind and charming to all he meets, and is tactful but warm in all interviews with the media that continually accosts him. It makes Daniel sick to see these kind displays, partly because if everyone knew the truth they would recoil from Adrian instead of worshipping him like they do. His nausea is, however, is also due to the fact that if they succeed then they will be regarded with the same amounts of disgust as if the populace was aware of Adrian’s role in the disaster. Because they will, for all intents and purposes, be killing New York’s destroyer, even if he’s disguised as its savior, its champion, its messiah. Dan regards him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing although the voice in his mind remains. He had to, he saved us from nuclear war, if he hadn’t Rorschach would never have been with you, he- Daniel stifles the voice quickly, squelches its tones of betrayal out of shame and anger.

For the most part they stroll by the building now and then or sit in a nearby diner. Walter refuses to eat, presumably because he’s “on the job,” but Daniel still worries. Daniel also worries that someone will recognize the smaller man; his sharp features cannot be adequately masked by the glasses or new clothes, (which, by the end of the first week, are sufficiently ruined enough that Daniel can persuade him to allow their cleaning.)

The second week yields better results; as they sit there, Daniel fiddling with his bendy straw, Walter prods him in the arm.

“Hm?” He asks lazily, expecting a commentary on the man who passes in front of them wearing a gold chain on which hangs the Star of David. He can practically hear the derogatory remarks already, and braces himself.

“He’s leaving.” Rorschach says instead, tensing in his chair. Daniel follows his gaze to see Adrian exiting Veidt industries and sighs.

“Probably going on a talk show to speak out on the clubbing of baby seals.” Daniel says sarcastically. But Rorschach shakes his head with a grunt, as if Dan’s comment was perfectly plausible but nonetheless false. A car pulls up; old and beat down and presumably white although it has long faded to a dingy grey. Somewhere behind them a waitress explains that it’s closing time, 8:00 PM, and they stand up compliantly to leave. The car across the street produces its driver; Adrian climbs in the man’s stead, hands him some paltry amount of money.

Dan squints, dumbfounded, and disguises be damned, he should’ve worn his glasses. He leans forwards as Adrian pulls away, and what’s going on? Why would Adrian, a man known for his extravagant tastes, be driving a heap like that, much less alone at 8 at night?

The waitress complains again, saying they really need to leave, and before Daniel can even lift a muscle Rorschach is out the door, running.

Daniel whirls around to follow. Damn it, Walter isn’t exactly being discreet, and Daniel runs outside, looking around desperately. Walter stands about a yard away, and Daniel jogs over, too old for this, and… Why does Walter look like that, glassy eyed, jaw firmly set?

“Gone” He chokes out through evident rage as Daniel finally draws level with him; panting, Daniel searches the street. Adrian’s gone, engulfed by the ample bosom of New York, and he frowns, pats Rorschach’s shoulder lightly. The day proves to be a failure.

Somehow Daniel has manages to convince Rorschach that it’s enough for the day, that he needs to sleep. Ever since they’ve begun their stake-outs Rorschach has been going on only an hour or two of sleep per night, sometimes not at all. They typically begin in the wee hours of the morning, already knowing their endeavors will most likely prove fruitless; and yet, they persevere. By midnight Daniel normally heads home, and despite his pleading Walter does not. Instead he goes on patrol, and by the next morning Daniel finds him in his kitchen, visibly haggard, typically covered in fresh bruises and occasionally worse. But not tonight.

Tonight, Daniel manages to convince the man that New York can go unsupervised for one night; that he will be of more benefit to the sprawling city if he gets some rest. If he can stand without swaying. If he can sit for more than a moment without practically passing out.

When they walk into his house, having climbed the stairs from the basement without gusto, Rorschach looks at him for a moment and then turns to walk into the living room. He’s practically staggering, and Daniel catches up with him easily.

“Where are you…?”

“Couch.” Walter cuts in, stopping to glance over his shoulder.

The flash of brown eyes, baggy and emotionless, startles Daniel. He was going to argue, to insist his bed is big enough for the both of them, that the sofa will only prove detrimental to Walter’s back. But something in the man’s face scares him; or, rather, it’s the absence of something. Of an expression, any expression.

“Okay.” He mumbles, convincing himself that he’s only giving up because he’s too tired for the obviously ensuing argument. “If you need anything… Well, I’ll be in my room.”

Rorschach sinks down onto the couch silently, strips his shirt off. Daniel pulls his eyes from the ripple of muscles, getting the message. He isn’t wanted right now. Maybe he never was.

“Uh… Right then.” He sighs, retreating back to his room with large plodding steps. Things aren’t going well. Their efforts have left them empty handed, and, worst of all, have caused Walter to become even more despondent than usual. How long can they go before they’re caught and subsequently killed? Veidt isn’t and idiot. As Daniel snuggles into his blankets, muscles surprisingly sore from doing nothing all day, he tries to shove it all from his mind. Karnak, Veidt, Walter, all of it. It’s not long before the gentle patter of rain on the street outside lulls him into honey sweet slumber.

It must be near four in the morning when he wakes up; something large settles on the mattress next to him and the springs creak in protest at the added weight. He rubs his eyes and props himself up, already knowing what he’ll find; there lays Walter, blankets pulled around his shoulders, eyes closed defiantly. It almost reminds Daniel of a child who’s had a nightmare and crawled into their mother’s bed for protection from whatever penny-dreadfuls terrorize them. He practically shudders at what kind of things must slink through Walter’s subconscious if he does in fact dream as “normal” people do. But, everyone’s human, even broken Walter Kovacs.

Daniel sinks back into the bed, wriggling until he’s a few inches from Walter, fully expecting to be shoved away; but Walter doesn’t move, and Daniel gets the impression that he’s holding his breath. He reaches out, rests his hand on Walter’s cheek, who remains still. Dan realizes he’s pretending to be asleep, that he wants to be touched like this but won’t be demeaned by allowing it while he’s awake. No, not Rorschach scourge of the underworld, but touch starved Walter, frightened and alone.

He massages the pad of his thumb over Walter’s cheek, smiling as he hears the breath catch in the other man’s throat. It’s heart breaking, knowing Walter has probably never been treated so gently, and he leans in and plants a soft kiss on the creased forehead, smoothing the wild red hair aside. He takes him into his arms as Walter gives particularly unconvincing snores, cradling him against his broad chest like a child, and Walter settles against him without any complaint, still feigning sleep. It’s the first real physical contact they’ve had since their stake-outs began, and Daniel is thankful, thankful for the small opportunity at not feeling so alone. Not feeling the still raw festering wound of Laurie’s desertion.

To Rorschach’s credit he doesn’t mention the incident the next day, nor will he after the next several times it happens, scattered instances in which he agrees to stay away from patrol for a single night at Daniel’s behest. During the day they still watch Veidt religiously, Dan’s nerves flaring up periodically; after all, this is different then when he was in costume, and each day the prospect of being discovered by Adrian seems increasingly likely. Sometimes he still creeps down to his basement in the darkness, looks at his old costume with both reverence and disgust and shame. But on the nights Rorschach stays it’s worth it just to hold him in his arms and hope it means something. It has to, it has to, Walter said he loved he loved him didn’t he? Daniel frets that the confession was a mistake, a phrase spouted in the wake of passion. That maybe Walter doesn’t understand its weight, just as he doesn’t understand so many of the delicacies of human interaction. But when he finds the man crawling into his bed on the nights when the air is pregnant with moisture, thick and humid, he finds it increasingly difficult to care. And on the few nights when innocent caresses turn to hot heavy strokes, when panted names tumble through the air, he finds he doesn’t even care, because it’s enough to feel alive, to be allowed to pretend that Walter loves him; why should he care if it’s true? Whether it is or not Daniel still garners the same languid caresses, still feels his own affection. The reality of the other man’s feelings will not affect that, and so during their quick sessions he manages to forget his qualms.

“L-love, Daniel.” Walter chokes out as Daniel takes him into his mouth on one such occasion, and Daniel can feel his heart leap into his throat. Walter’s hips jerk spastically and Daniel holds them down firmly, eyes watering as he bobs his head up and down, tongue curling around Walter’s member, hand moving to massage the base of the shaft. His knuckles brush against course red pubic hairs, and when Walter comes Dan swallows despite the unpleasant taste.

“Dirty, Daniel.” Walter pants weakly as Dan pulls himself up, flopping next to the other man, wiping the remaining semen from his lip. “Bad enough… Shouldn’t have swallowed it.” He mumbles incoherently, and he truly does look guilty, even disgusted, but it seems that he finds himself repugnant rather than Daniel’s ministrations.

“It’s fine.” Daniel whispers, kissing him gingerly. “It’s ok when it’s us, I promise.” He’s forced to give these hollow assurances frequently even though he doesn’t know if what they’re doing is right, and could on his own part frankly care less. He pauses, inhaling raggedly as his erection brushed Walter’s bare skin “I love you too Walter.”

The hard brown eyes search his own, a rough hand resting uncertainly on his side. “You…” Walter shifts uncomfortably. “You still need to orgasm.” He fumbles the words inexpertly, and Daniel’s heart warms at the awkward phrasing.

“Um, yeah… I-it’s ok, I can finish myself.”

Walter shakes his head stiffly, and one moment he’s moving away and the next oh god his mouth is on Daniel’s cock, warm and wet, and teeth lightly scrape him, and it’s clumsy and ill executed and amazing. Daniel cries in ecstasy an prays that this isn’t the last time that they’ll do this.

His worries are typically dispelled when a stubbled jaw crashes against his own unexpectedly in the night, blunt dirty teeth leaving territorial marks on his neck. These encounters keep him going, keep him from having a damned panic attack every time they spy on the world’s smartest and arguably fastest man. And when they see him leaving in an old beat up car again, this time a dull red one, they manage to follow it, the image of Walter pale and naked and human is what flashing through Daniel’s mind.

They’re silent that entire ride, their tension palpable. They keep a good distance, letting several cars separate them; there’s one instance in which Adrian looks in his rearview mirror and Dan swears that their eyes lock there for a moment. There’s a shock of adrenaline and Daniel’s knuckles turn white from the ferocity with which he clutches the wheel of the rented car.

“Daniel.” Walter says calmly, as reassuring as is possible for him to be. Daniel nods slowly, feeling the contents of his stomach slosh sickeningly, apparently plotting their escape.

“I’m fine.” He deadpans, relaxing his grip a little in an effort to prove the statement. “Just fine.”

Rorschach grunts, leaning back in his seat; despite his cool façade Daniel can see the way his adams apple bobs repeatedly. They talk even less lately, not because they’re drifting apart but because they’ve become adept at reading the other’s moods. Walter continually proves he can go beyond this and actually know what Daniel’s thinking though Dan finds the death mask of Walter’s face as imperceptible as his actual mask, possibly more so. Besides, words seem meaningless to Daniel after Karnak, small trifles which are lost to history as soon as they pry their way free; Daniel has come to prefer just being with someone, knowing that he’s not alone or dead.

Eventually they end up in a deserted area, ramshackle sheds and broken glass. They turn off before the buffering cars do and get out, stretching stiff joints. They stand for a moment exchanging a wordless glance, each shrugging on a discreet ragged jacket and checking the deep pockets for their contents.

“Ready?” Rorschach asks, expression unreadable. Daniel feels an odd sense of calm drift over him, smothering his fears and doubts and nausea.

“I’m ready.” He answers, and with that they begin, treading through barren alleyways and cracked streets that show immutable evidence of what Adrian has done. It’s an hour, maybe two before they find the car, rust spots like a beacon through the descending shadows. Dan’s breath hitches in his throat, but he knows what they have to do, and forces himself to continue. Veidt’s car is deserted, parked next to a large warehouse with unnaturally sloping walls, seeming to beckon them closer.

“What if someone’s with him?” Daniel says so low it’s nearly a whisper. Walter doesn’t answer, because they both know he won’t be and they both know it doesn’t matter. It’s happening tonight, it has to. The things in his jacket suddenly seem so heavy and they weigh him down.

It’s easy finding a crack in the wall of the warehouse that Veidt is obviously in, a small hole created by the rust that eats at the monstrosity’s side. Rorschach doesn’t hesitate, presses his eye to it resolutely, and Daniel looks around nervously feeling a nervous certainty that their necks will be snapped at any moment. It’s odd to think that a man like Adrian who is an avid vegetarian and pacifist has the power to take on virtually any man alive; even stranger to think such a humane man would be the perpetrator of mass murder.

From the corner of his eyes he sees Walter freeze, every muscle of his body clenching beneath the alien clothing. He steps away from the building, shaking visibly, face contorted in rage or repulsion or both. Daniel quirks his head quizzically, mouths “what?” But Rorschach just clenches his jaw tighter and shakes his head weakly as if to say don’t look don’t look. Dan opts to ignore the cues in Rorschach’s posture, steps forward and leans down to peer inside. He expects, from Rorschach’s reaction, to see Veidt killing a damn kitten or something, but what he gets is much worse.

At first he can only make out Adrian’s face and why the hell is he making that expression? The answer is simple, and when Daniel understands he staggers back, the color draining from his face.

Adrian Veidt is fucking a boy of what looks to be 16 in some god forsaken warehouse, his perfect features twisted in ecstasy, his golden hair tussled and sweat soaked. Daniel doesn’t dare think why on Earth the man would be doing this, doesn’t wish to consider his odd fetishes. He just gapes dumbly at Rorschach, wishing it to all just be some elaborate joke, knowing it’s an outlandish thing to hope.

They walk away from the unpleasant scene quietly, Daniel shaking his head incredulously. “This is what he’s been sneaking away for every month? To violate some undoubtedly ill-begot teenager?” Dan asks, straining to confine his voice to a whisper, tone threatening to erupt into a scream. His hands gesture wildly in lieu of his nausea. The boy was crying damn it and that bastard just kept going, kissing the thin neck in some sick imitation of love.

“Have to go now Daniel. While he’s preoccupied.” Walter returns stiffly. His voice quakes as they near the door, bespeaking his anger and disgust. It will be locked, Daniel’s sure, but his own frequently splintered front door is evidence of Rorschach’s ability to easily circumvent such measures.

The gravel crunches heavily under his feet and Daniel gulps weakly. “But the boy, he-“

“The boy deserves retribution. Best chance we have. Wasting time.” Walter’s eyes are cold and there’s a jolt up Daniel’s spine. He knows Rorschach is right but it’s wrong, so wrong. He nods slowly anyways, reaching into his pockets, grasping the contents that are cold and biting to the touch.

“No hesitation.” Rorschach rasps as they stop several feet to the right of the door. “Wait until he’s away from the boy and do it.”

Daniel nods again, stomach churning because oh god oh god this can all be gone in a moment, Rorschach and Walter and everything. He hesitates when Walter asks if he’s ready. He leans forward, grabs the smaller man roughly, and mashes their lips together, eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the feel of the cracked lips beneath his own and the smell of the grubby skin that yields to his fingers. He pulls away, inhales deeply, shivers as Rorschach allows this indiscretion. “Ready.”

When they rush forward it’s almost as if Daniel isn’t in his own body, instead a floating entity watching its vessel as Rorschach kicks down the door. Adrian looks up with such innate terror that Daniel lets out a horrified laugh, finding the scene disgustingly absurd as Adrian pulls out of the boy who sits up, tear streaked face turning white as parchment. Adrian runs at them without hesitation and they in turn surge towards him, Dan’s legs heavy and unwieldy as tree trunks. An animalistic roar bursts forth from Rorschach and Daniel swears that fluid blots of black shift over his unmasked face. In the corner the boy cowers, scrambling to cover himself, and with a sickening lurch of his stomach Daniel realizes he’s bleeding.

“Now.” Rorschach growls, and they each pull two fire arms from their pockets. It’s too damn simple, too ineloquent a way to kill a man like Veidt, but it’s the simplicity that is their best bet. Oddly enough Rorschach had agreed to this plan, realizing his typical improvisation would not work on a man with the speed of the wind and the strength of a leviathan. Veidt hurls something, a hammer from a nearby crate, unimaginable rage tearing at his handsome face.

Just as the hammer connects with Walter’s head, Veidt’s aim horribly immaculate, four gun shots echo through the tin walls, two from each of the men that clutch the guns; one, Walter, tumbles to the ground and oh god his head looks smashed in and there’s blood blood blood, red and thick and fluid.

Veidt screams something but it’s lost in the moment, and he raises his hands; catches two of the bullets, one in each palm, flying backwards from the impact. He hits the ground with a sickening thud, blood welling up from his head, from his chest. Yes, Adrian had proved he was fast enough to catch a bullet that night in Karnak, and yes Dan and Rorschach had anticipated he could catch at least two. But the debauchery he’s pulled himself away from has clouded his mind, he’s let his only weakness become his downfall, his Achilles heel, and he only has so many hands.

“Walter!” Dan screams, dropping his still smoking guns in a tactically idiotic move considering Adrian’s previously demonstrated skill at playing dead, but Daniel can only think oh god oh god he’s dead, why not me why not me.

Somewhere in the corner the boy screams shrilly but Daniel can’t bring himself to care as he drops to his knees and grabs Walter’s face that shines red with blood. Tears well up in his eyes and blur his vision and what does he do, what the hell is he supposed to do?

Adrian is probably dead judging by the amount of crimson that leaks around him but Daniel doesn’t check to make sure, just sobs and shakes his friend who’s eyelids flutter pathetically as if struggling to open. He presses his forehead to the other man’s chest, fingers knotting in the ruined white shirt, screaming and screaming and screaming.

Rorschach had been right; everyone has a weakness, even the world’s smartest man. Adrian’s were young boys and, un-poetically enough, bullets.

Daniel’s is Walter.


	11. Chapter 11

It isn’t until they’re in a nearby beat-down shack, Daniel’s arms sore and pulsing from hefting Walter that Daniel’s heart will stop it’s steady assault on his ribs. He has to stop here, has to wake Walter up, has to make him live. He knows he won’t be able to get him back to his house like this, there are still so many blocks to go and it won’t look right, tugging along a messily bandaged man at night. He can’t risk it despite the area’s desertion, and so the pit stop is necessary.

He lays him on a shoddy old desk, splintered and eaten away at by the years and the termites. All he can do is stare at the body; he takes a pulse, and it’s there, but he’s almost certain it’s his imagination; one last cruel trick.

“Walter.” He sobs, burying his face in the stained shirt, hands flexing and clenching, not knowing what to do. “Please, oh god, oh please. You can’t, you can’t…” But the body doesn’t do anything. It just lays there, and Daniel can hear the heartbeat but it must be his own heart thrumming in his ears, must be an illusion because he’s been left alone again, he can feel it. It’s the same hollow feeling as when Laurie left; shock and disbelief and an echo of love or something very much like it, but it’s magnified a hundred fold this time, and he’s ready to give up, just as he’s given up on everything else in life. Just like he gave up on masked adventuring after the Keene ace; just like he gave up on Rorschach after the Roche case; just like he gave up on Laurie when she left him.

It’s like this for several minutes as he whispers entreaties to the motionless lump, dumb with grief and confusion, hating the heavy weights in his pockets, the sinister instruments of their attack.

It’s 7 minutes later, maybe ten, but Rorschach opens his eyes. It’s slow at first; a flutter of matted lashes, the parting of cracked lips.

When Walter mumbles Daniel’s name, groping for him in the shadows, Daniel could cry, already is, small tears sliding over the hills of his cheeks.

“It’s OK.” He whispers through choked tears, gently cupping Walter’s face with large hands. Walter rasps his name again, wincing, fingers seeking out the make-shift bandages that wrap over his forehead, other hand gripping Daniel’s shirt desperately. “Shh. I’m here, Walter, I’m here.” Dan soothes, smiling through his tears. “You’re going to be fine.” He’s not sure if he’s lying, and he doesn’t care. They’re fine in that moment encapsulated by time, by the steady pulse of Rorschach’s blood.

“Not… Walter. Rorschach.” He growls back, still looking a bit disorientated, finally locking his eyes with Daniel’s. “The boy?”

Daniel’s heart sinks, but at least he’s coherent, at least he’s alive. “The boy… He, he ran. I didn’t get to-“

“Was hurt Daniel. Why didn’t you help him?”

“Why didn’t I?...” His eyebrows knit up in anger; another tear drips from where it’s climbed to perch on his nose. “You were hurt, I thought you were dead, and then there were sirens and we had to get out of there- I thought the police would help the boy but he ran, and… I didn’t know what to do… You have to understand, Rorschach, I-“

“Boy should have taken priority.” Rorschach asserts, sitting up; Daniel tries to support him but he gently shoves him away, tottering weakly. “Minor head wound.” He observes, eye twitching briefly as he probes at the bandages, torn strips of the jacket he wore. His fingers come away with blood.

“Minor- Rorschach, you’ve got a gash in your head. Fuck, you probably have a concussion; I kept trying to wake you up, but you wouldn’t… You could have died.” He pleads, restraining himself from grabbing the man. He wants to hold him, to know he’s real and not some waxy corpse. But he can’t and he knows it, simply watches Rorschach sway slightly, settles for lightly placing his hand on the hard arm, supporting him, whispering in blatant disregard for his own pride. “Please. I need you.”

“Weak.” Rorschach grunts back, shrugging Dan’s hand off and standing. He’s visibly haggard; blood shot dull brown eyes, drooping lids, normally hard line of lips tugged down at the corners in a grimace. The wound on his head has finally clotted, bandages soaked through with deep maroon. Daniel’s heart pangs, his stomach sinks. Of course he is. Of course Rorschach regards him as such; weak.

As he stands, slinging Walter’s arm around his neck, sidling them both towards the door with small awkward strides, (his long legs struggling to retain Rorschach’s comparatively slow pace,) Rorschach mutters something. It’s almost lost in the wake of receding sirens, the patter of rain outside, but its there and Daniel savors it.

“…Need you too, Daniel.”

They know Veidt must have taken precautions; even in death he wields complete power over their lives, and Daniel is certain he will have left some indicator of who his murderers may have been, one of those yellow enveloped affairs with “Open in the event of my death” stamped across the front in accusing red ink. It’s with haste that they return to Daniel’s home, and the whole way all he can do is worry about Rorschach because oh god he’s lost so much blood.

Predictably enough, he won’t allow Daniel to transport him to the hospital. He’s like a child, stubborn, un-budging until he’s gotten his way. Daniel asks in frustration why he can’t take him, and yes he knows they might get arrested, but if Walter dies… Then he’ll be alone. And yes he’s selfish for feeling this way, but he needs him, loves him. It was easier before, when he thought Walter found him disgusting.

“Not afraid of arrest Daniel.” Rorschach replies, still walking unevenly, supported by Daniel’s shoulder. They’re in the tunnel that leads to Dan’s workshop, to the Owl’s Nest, and they near the mouth of the passage.

“Well then why?”

“…Only trust you.” Rorschach says hoarsely, guttural tones somehow speaking volumes more than the words themselves. Dan’s heart breaks a little and he squeezes Walter’s small muscled frame to his side, still supporting the limp iron wrought body.

“OK… OK. Let’s get you fixed up.”

When he peels the bandages off, Walter gives a dull cry; he lays flat on the workbench, Daniel standing over him, carefully lifting the cloth. His gut turns, wrenching at the sight of flaking scabs of blood that peel off with the rough fabric. “Oh… God, Rorschach…” He whispers, shakily laying the discarded strip aside, eyes fixed on the split skin on Rorschach’s forehead. He feels a pang of anger at Veidt, at a dead man.

But Daniel takes care of him, as quickly and efficiently as he can, gentle reassurances cooed the whole way. Rorschach grunts, acts like he’s above it; but each time Daniel strokes his cheek, whispers a promise, Walter leans into the touch ever so slightly.

He cleans the wound, steadily washing away dried flecks of blood with carefully pressured strokes. Afterwards he observes the damage; a deep cut, split skin, chipped bone. He thanks a god he no longer believes in for the fact the skull doesn’t show through; just a shallow dent, bruised bloody and sliced.

“You need stitches.” He says breathlessly, leaning in to study the red and purple horror. “I don’t know if I can-“

“Do it.” Rorschach grunts, sweating moderately; Daniel wipes away the perspiration with one of the towels on his hand. He massages his temples, voice pathetic and cracking.

“It’s not… I don’t know if I can do it.” He protests. “After patrols was one thing, they were never this bad, never on your face, I-“ Walter stares up at him with cold uncomprehending eyes and Daniel freezes mid sentence. Rorschach needs him. For the first time, it’s Daniel that is relied upon by his friend and not the other way around. And he’s being weak. “Ok. Ok, I’ll do it.”

He fetches the rest of the med kit from Archie hurriedly, cursing under his breath. How long will it be before Veidt’s hired guns are on them? Adrian has never trusted others with these things before, but he’s dead, he doesn’t have much of a choice. Daniel holds onto the hollow hope that maybe Veidt didn’t foresee this. But Dan knows in the hollow of his gut that Adrian wouldn’t leave this up to chance; he would assume that once he was dead they would leak his secret, throw his utopia into a state of upheaval. And he can’t have that, oh no. Even in death Ozymandias will not risk destroying all he has striven for.

Stitching Rorschach up is one of the least pleasant tasks Daniel has ever embarked upon. It’s slow and tedious, and Walter grits his teeth below him, refusing to make a peep. They have nothing to numb the pain, only antiseptic to ensure the gash doesn’t become infected; Daniel’s fingers move nimbly although he’s never been as skilled as Rorschach at such things. He remembers the odd impression he had gotten once that the man worked with clothing during the day, a tailor maybe. There’s a hiss and it’s a moment before he realizes that it’s Rorschach emitting the noise.

“Shh. It’s ok.” He soothes, continuing to gently pierce and pull with the needle, clear medical thread synching with each tug. Rorschach makes a noise in the back of his throat, a frightening gurgle like emission. Walter’s eyelids flutter lightly; drift close, snap open, knuckles whitening as he desperately clutches at the bench on which he lays. Daniel realizes that he’s about to black out, that he’s fighting it.

“I’m almost done.” He says urgently, snipping the thread. “Stay awake, c’mon, stay awake.”

“Fine, Daniel.” Rorschach mumbles unconvincingly. Dan manages to finish, carefully swabbing his handiwork. The stitches span the left side of Walter’s forehead, short and numerous, like little disjointed railroad tracks. With an odd sense of hysteria Daniel notices that the stitches link several freckles; connect the dots he thinks dumbly.

“Done.” He says weakly; his hands tremble as he helps Rorschach to sit up, bandaging his forehead again to be safe. He wonders how he managed to sew the man up with hands that quake like a palsied geriatrics’. His stomach is sloshing, and every time he looks into the stark brown eyes he sees Veidt laying dead on the stone floor in a pool of his own blood as Daniel hurries about, grabbing the guns to dispose of, cleaning Walter’s blood from the hammer, and Walter just laying there in his make-shift bandages, the look in Veidt’s glassy eyes is terrifyingly blank, and oh god, he-

Walter grabs his wrist and Daniel blinks, pulled away from the warehouse and its tinny stench of blood. “Thank you Daniel.” Walter says, low and scratchy and sincere.

Daniel smiles softly, tries to erase the horror and the worry from his face, clasps his hand over Walter’s. He’s slightly queezy still, but they need to go. It won’t be long, he’s sure; he remembers Adrian’s hints at the security measures, smug smile disguising the terrible reality of what he was telling Daniel. “When I die,” He had said, observing one of Daniel’s ornithology books with an air of disinterest, “Well, then so do you.. It’s nothing personal, a preventative measure. I don’t relish causing any more pain, but if it’s what’s best for this pathetic world then so be it. You’re an intelligent individual Daniel; I always did like you. Certainly you can empathize with, though certainly not understand, the position I’m in.

It’s all so fragile, even the shorter battle scarred man that Daniel now helps to his feet. Fragile. He remembers the fake identities he set up all those years ago when he still played at being a hero; they will use these, they have to use these. They will grab what they can and leave New York, maybe forever. Rorschach is more a shell now than ever and Daniel holds him tightly, burying his face into the red hair that stands rigid in places with dried blood serving as some twisted sort of gel.

“I need you.” He whispers, repeating his earlier confession, squeezing his eyes shut. He winces at the images that hide behind his lids, innocuous as first, then terrible; Karnak, snowy and white, a street littered with human flesh, pungent and decaying, a warehouse with two bleeding men on its floor, one ruined boy scrambling for the door.

Daniel accepts that Walter will never be himself again, not in the sense of who he was before the Roche case; and Rorschach will never return to the way he was previous to Karnak. Killing Veidt didn’t “fix” him, and nothing ever can. How can blood fix a man who has simultaneously brought and suffered so much pain? He can never be satiated, never fulfilled by righting the world’s easily replenished evils. Nothing can fix him; nothing ever will. It’s brief for Daniel; a brief acceptance of who Walter is, who Rorschach is, and who he will never be. A brief acceptance of an inability to fix this man, much less this world.

And then it’s done, pushed from his mind and heart. All that’s left is Rorschach.

All that’s left is Walter.


End file.
